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THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO 


THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO 


VIRGINIA  W.  JOHNSON 

Author  of  "  Genoa,  the  City  of  Columbus,"  etc. 
The  world  does  not  require  so  much  to  be  informed  as  to  be 

reminded.— Hannah  More. 


•  *• •-.  :•.  :• : :  .*. 

••  •    I  *.•  •  •  •••  •  •,•  •  ••• 


BOSTON 

iana  ^bUb  mh  ffinrnpang 

PUBLISHERS 


>&-'^"- 


V 


Copyright^  i8gi 
By  Estes  and  Lauriat 

All  rights  reserved 


>••  • 


COLONIAL   PRESS 

Printed  by  C  H.  Simonds  &*  Co. 

Boston,   U.S.A. 


TO 

THE     FLOWER     CITY 

THESE  PAGES  ARE   INSCRIBED 

WITH  ADMIRATION   OF  HER   BEAUTY.  AND   REVERENCE  FOR 
THE  NOBILITY  OF   HER   MEMORIES 

Florbncb,  1891 


9.RK2^.(I 


CONTENTS. 


CuAFTsm  Faob 

I.    The  Steeet  op  the  Watebmelon 1 

II.    A  Florence  Window •    .    •  14 

III.    The  Shrine  of  the  Five  Lamps 28 

rV.    Church  Towers 32 

1.  The  Ave  Maria  of  Dawn 34 

2.  The  Masquerade  of  the  Winds •  .    .    .  46 

3.  AJewel-Box 55 

4.  A  Pot  of  Geranium 68 

5.  A  Blackbird ,    .  82 

6.  A  Vesper  Bell 91 

V.    Country  Bells 97 

1.  The  Ancient  Mother    .     .    • 100 

2.  A  Rose  of  VaUombrosa 107 

3.  The  Cypress-Tree 121 

VI.    By  the  City  Gate 127 

VII.    Those  who  came  after 163 

VIII.    In  the  Church  op  the  Lilt 171 

IX.    The  Christ  Child 192 

X.    A  Chord  of  Music 211 


Viii  CONTENTS. 

Chapti*  Pagk 

XI.    Three  Pictures 226 

1.  A  Monk's  CeU 226 

2.  The  Autumn  Leaf 234 

3.  The  Respected  Citizen 241 

Xn.    In  a  Church  Niche 248 

XIII.  The  Story-Teller 254 

XIV.  From  the  Laboratory  op  a  Prince 259 

XV.    The  Bronze  Boar 277 

XVI.    A  Silver  Lamp 285 

XVn.    The  Stranger  Colony 297 

1.  Galileo's  Disciple 297 

2.  The  God  Mars 307 

3.  A  Branch  of  Almond  Blossoms 315 

XVIII.    The  Grasshopper's  Festival 325 

XIX.    On  the  Arno 332 

XX.    The  Window  Closed 342 


Index • 347 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGB 

General  View  op  Florence  (photogravure)      .         Frontispiece 

Church  of  Santa  Croce 33 

Ghiberti's  Bronze  Gate  of  the  Baptistery  ...  66 
View  of  the  Cathedral  and  Giotto's  Campanile  from 

San  Michele 85 

San  Miniato  al  Monte 122 

Piazza  and  Church  of  San  Marco 134 

Cell  of  Savonarola,  San  Marco 140 

Savonarola 164 

PoNTE  Vecchio 192 

The  Pitti  Palace 234 

Church  of  Or  San  Michele 249 

Statue  of  Justice,  Piazza  Santa  Trinita      .        .        .  262 

Cosmo  1 268 

The  Boboli  Gardens   .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  271 

Bronze  Boar  of  the  Mercato  Nuovo     ....  277 

First  Cloister  of  the  Church  of  Santa  Croce    .        .  286 

Palazzo  Vecchio  .        .                338 


Florenoo 


•  •     •     •    •       • 


*      *       •  •  I 


THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO; 

OB, 

FLORENCE,  PAST  AND   PRESENT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  STREET   OP  THE  WATERMELON. 

TN  the  city  of  Florence  there  is  a  thoroughfare  now  bear- 
•*■  ing  the  name  of  the  Via  Ricasoli,  but  which  was  for- 
merly known  as  the  Via  del  Cocomero,  or  the  Street  of  the 
Watermelon. 

The  street  is  narrow,  dark,  and  still  mediaeval  in  char- 
acter, and  leads  from  the  Piazza  of  St.  Mark  to  the  Cathe- 
dral. How  many  mortals  have  found  their  brief  span  of 
existence  from  birth  to  death  within  this  line  of  shadow 
between  the  two  open  spaces  of  public  squares !  How  vital 
the  elements  of  history  in  the  development  of  the  Floren- 
tine commonwealth,  which  had  their  theatre  of  action  on 
this  spot  1 

On  the  left  hand  there  is  a  window  ;  and  through  it  such 
light  as  these  pages  may  hope  to  offer  must  filter.  Truly, 
"  the  understanding  is  indeed  thy  window,  —  too  clear 
thou  canst  not  make  it ;  but  phantasy  is  thy  eye,  with  its 
colour-giving  retina,  healthy  or  diseased."  The  casement 
is  one  of  many  in  the  wall  of  a  palace.  Externally  it  is 
heavy,  yet  of  a  symmetrical  form,  and  protected  by  an  iron 
grating,  curbing  outward  at  the  base  in  the  form  known  as 
kneeling   (inginocchiata),  which    permits   the   inmate  to 


2  *•*••**        .'Pftfi  PlIEK'OF  THE  ARNO. 

glanCe^tipr*&B'd'-dbTiii.tlie'*paV'ement  at  ease.  Within  the 
chamber  the  embrasure  is  gained  by  two  marble  steps, 
covered  with  Persian  or  Turkish  rugs,  or  even  rendered 
less  cold  by  a  margin  of  white  fur  in  winter. 

A  sheaf  of  flowers  rests  on  the  ledge,  and  sheds  abroad 
the  fragrance  of  the  Tuscan  spring.  These  fleurs  du  vent 
—  the  iris,  so  long  an  emblem  of  the  town,  and  still  to  be 
found  blooming  in  moat  and  crevice  of  masonry,  purple 
anemones,  and  scarlet  tulips  —  were  gathered  this  morn- 
ing on  a  slope  of  Fiesole,  amid  the  fresh  green  corn  and 
sprays  of  budding  vine. 

The  mansion  is  spacious  and  lofty,  with  massive  cornices 
projecting  over  the  street,  and  the  iron  cramps  still  visible 
on  the  roof  where  cloth  of  traffic  was  spread  to  dry  by 
thrifty  merchants,  in  a  day  when  the  Guild  of  Wool 
rivalled  the  trade  of  Genoa  or  Lucca,  and  fairs  were  held 
in  the  Piazza  of  Santo  Spirito  to  display  the  wares,  while 
the  worthy  burghers,  as  pious  citizens,  were  expected  to 
embellish  certain  altars  of  the  churches,  and  enrich  the 
shrines  of  patron  saints.  Beyond  our  window  is  a  cresset 
of  wrought  iron,  worthy  of  having  been  fashioned  by 
Niccold  Caparra. 

The  old  house  is  rich  in  association  with  the  past, 
although  no  longer  tenanted  by  the  rightful  owners.  On 
occasion  it  becomes  transfigured  with  the  most  superb  and 
characteristic  illumination,  in  honor  of  the  Queen's  birth- 
day. The  iron  rings  and  sockets  of  the  facade  burn  the 
wax  torches  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  town  is  brilliant 
elsewhere  with  gas  jets,  electric  disks,  and  Venetian  gar- 
lands of  lamps.  Beyond  the  great  draughty  gateway  and 
damp  vestibule,  where  the  little  pale  girl  Agata  hovers 
shiveringly  near  the  porter's  door,  the  mouldy  court  is  visi- 
ble, with  faded  frescos  crumbling  from  the  walls,  while 
the  inscriptions  to  dead  historians  and  statesmen,  above 
the  numerous  portals,  are  still  decipherable.     In  the  som- 


THE  STREET  OF  THE  WATERMELON.  3 

bre  apartments,  pictures,  tapestries,"  ahd'*telVet'feiigings, 
with  the  gold  thread  of  the  embroideries  untarnished,  still 
speak  of  a  race  numbering  priors,  soldiers,  and  gonfaloniere 
of  the  Republic  among  their  ancestors.  In  obscure  alcoves, 
precious  fragments  of  marble  and  pietra  serena,  once 
shaped  by  the  chisel  of  Donatello  and  Mino  da  Fiesole,  are 
treasured,  as  well  as  busts  of  exiles,  long  dead  in  banish- 
ment like  Dante,  victims  of  the  existing  wrath  of  the  hour, 
Guelph  or  Ghibelline,  Black  or  White  factions. 

Across  the  way  is  the  shop  of  the  rosy  and  smiling  vege- 
table-woman. Her  door  is  stocked  with  a  tempting  array 
of  red  tomatoes,  strings  of  pearly  onions,  tufts  of  celery 
and  radishes,  almonds  in  the  green  pod,  as  well  as  peas 
and  beans,  to  be  eaten  raw  by  the  initiated.  Salads  in 
all  varieties  of  the  crisp,  bitter,  and  curling  leaf  abound. 
The  salad  is  as  indispensable  to  the  Florentine  as  to  the 
Greek. 

The  vender  of  wood  and  charcoal  occupies  a  cavernous 
cellar  of  our  palace  wall.  Why  not  ?  All  must  live,  and 
each  gain  his  bread  in  his  own  way.  The  carhonajo  is  a 
short  stout  man  of  forty  years  of  age,  robust  and  vigorous, 
with  a  humorous  nose  turned  up  at  the  tip,  little,  twinkling 
eyes,  and  a  nature  as  sound  as  his  own  olive  and  chestnut 
logs,  which  he  extols  with  abundant  gesticulation.  Dusky 
myrmidons  come  and  go  at  his  bidding,  bearing  on  their 
backs  the  bags  of  charcoal  sent  down  from  the  Apennines 
for  that  primitive  altar  dedicated  to  culinary  rites,  the 
Florence  kitchen. 

The  man  of  charcoal  has  his  grievances,  like  the  rest  of 
the  world.  In  his  case  they  assume  the  shape  of  modern 
Viennese  iron  stoves,  capable  of  burning  coke  and  coal, 
Parisian  inventions  to  warm  humanity  with  a  petroleum 
lamp,  Piedmontese  calorifers,  with  smart  brass  doors  and 
valves,  warranted  to  consume  their  own  smoke,  in  lieu  of 
the  cavernous,  open  chimney  that  formerly  devoured  fuel 


•THE  LILY"  OF  THE  ARNO. 


with'k  gaanf*seppetitb,  and  gave  no  sign,  scarcely  deluding 
shivering  mortals  with  a  sensation  of  transient  warmth. 

In  the  matter  of  private  history  our  carhonajo  is  a 
widower,  and  whether  from  the  public  reprehension  which 
would  attach  to  him  in  the  opinion  of  his  own  circle  if  he 
took  a  second  wife,  or  because  his  first  experience  of  mat- 
rimony was  unsatisfactory,  he  expresses  scorn  and  defiance 
of  womankind.  His  son,  a  small  boy  with  a  frosty  nose 
and  a  wooden  expression  of  countenance,  is  returned  to 
him  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  from  the  public 
school  of  the  quarter,  and  loiters  about  the  premises, 
receiving  awkward,  masculine  cares,  in  the  matter  of  shoe- 
tying  and  collar-adjusting,  from  his  fond  parent,  is  played 
with  by  the  dusky  myrmidons  at  leisure  moments,  and 
petted  by  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  with  the  kindness 
so  invariably  bestowed  on  children  by  the  Florentines. 

The  coal-dealer  is  rigid  in  the  observance  of  all  holi- 
days. He  is  ready  at  any  time  to  close  his  door,  place 
his  felt  hat  jauntily  over  his  left  ear,  take  his  little  son  by 
the  hand,  and  seek  the  Arno  bank,  if  any  spectacle,  such 
as  dragging  the  current  of  the  river  for  the  corpse  of  a 
suicide,  invite  his  interest.  Failing  result  of  such  grew- 
some  dredging,  he  contents  himself  with  basking  in  the 
sun  with  his  back  to  the  parapet,  and  inspecting  the 
feathers  on  the  hats  of  the  ladies,  the  jewels  sparkling  in 
their  ears,  the  rich  furs,  as  the  file  of  brilliant  equipages 
passes  in  the  drive  of  the  afternoon  to  the  Cascine. 

Who  so  proudly  elated  as  the  son  of  the  widower,  on 
such  occasions  ?  A  fig  for  stay-at-home,  coddling  mothers 
and  sisters,  if  one  can  walk  abroad  with  the  father,  making 
shrill,  infantile  comments  on  men  and  things,  so  patiently 
and  indulgently  responded  to  by  the  daddy  (hahho')  in  the 
streets. 

The  dealer  in  old  books  has  a  musty  little  shop  beyond 
our  palace  wall.     A  stray  volume  of  Petrarch  or  Ariosto, 


THE  STREET  OF  THE   WATERMELON.  6 

bound  in  shrunken,  yellow  parchment,  may  be  here  discov- 
ered beneath  piles  of  cheap  prints,  sheets  of  music,  the  red 
guidebooks  picked  up  by  thrifty  servants  in  hotel  and  pev/- 
siouj  the  faded  albums  of  the  school  of  keepsake  poetry, 
embellished  by  the  Countess  of  Blessington,  scattered  by 
the  decease  of  old  English  ladies  who  had  brought  the 
household  gods  of  provincial  homes,  the  mahogany  fur- 
niture and  Wedgwood  tea-pots  of  the  auction  sales,  to 
Italy. 

The  dealer  is  a  tall  thin  man  of  studious  aspect,  and  a 
uniform,  powdery  grayness  of  hue  in  hair,  beard,  com- 
plexion, and  raiment,  as  if  the  sun  had  forgotten  to  pay 
him  a  visit  in  his  dark  nook,  where  he  handles  little 
pictures  of  saints  painted  on  copper,  crumbling  leaves  of 
woodcuts  suggestive  of  Albert  Diirer,  and  portions  of 
dilapidated  missals  that  gleam  with  gold  tracery  and  softly 
blended  colors  on  illuminated  pages,  like  fragments  of  rain- 
bows amid  neutral-tinted  papers.  As  a  Florentine,  does 
the  gray  and  shadowy  old  man  share  the  usual  eccentrici- 
ties of  the  bibliopole  ?  Has  he  the  excellent  memory  ne- 
cessary to  the  true  librarian,  —  a  quality  to  be  ranked  with 
that  of  the  king,  who  never  forgets  the  face  of  a  subject 
presented  to  him,  the  actor,  the  barber,  the  club  porter, 
the  cabman  ?  Is  he  entitled  to  a  place  between  Maglia- 
becchi  and  the  famous  old  woman,  La  M^re  Mansut  of 
the  Latin  quarter  of  Paris  ?  The  former  regretted  that  he 
did  not  own  a  copy  of  the  "  Cosmogony  "  of  the  historian 
Zouaras,  and  once  mentioned  incidentally  that  the  work 
in  question,  bound  in  white  vellum,  with  red  edges,  was  in 
the  library  of  the  Grand  Signior  at  Constantinople,  in  the 
left-hand  corner  of  the  third  shelf  from  the  ceiling,  in  the 
southern  kiosque,  facing  the  Golden  Horn,  in  the  palace 
of  the  old  seraglio.  The  latter,  shrewd  and  lineal  de- 
scendant of  generations  of  second-hand  booksellers,  could 
rummage  out  from  some  dark  recess  of  her  humble  abode 


6  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

an  almost  forgotten  specimen  of  antique  lore  at  a  moment's 
notice. 

Opposite,  there  is  a  taciturn  antiquarian,  whose  shop- 
window  affords  only  transient  and  oblique  glimpses  of  ivory 
carvings,  enamelled  tea-spoons,  amber,  Venetian  lamps, 
tapestry,  and  majolica,  so  often  is  it  closed.  A  mysteri- 
ous and  silent,  if  not  saturnine,  person  is  the  antiquarian, 
with  many  business  interests  in  other  portions  of  the  town. 
He  would  have  been  accepted  as  an  astrologer  or  a  necro- 
mancer in  an  earlier  century. 

There  is  an  element  of  poetical  as  well  as  historical 
suggestiveness  in  the  names  of  by-ways  of  Italian  cities. 
We  seek  them  rather  than  the  modern  Corso  Vittorio 
Emanuele,  Piazza  d'Azeglio,  and  Indipendenza,  or  Via  Ca- 
vour,  Margherita,  and  Umberto,  of  our  day.  In  Florence 
a  group  of  such  relics  resists  the  spirit  of  modern 
innovation. 

One  may  traverse  streets  of  the  Lily,  the  Sun-Dial,  the 
Almond,  the  Guilds  of  Silk,  and  the  Furriers,  as  well  as 
the  Via  Maggio  (Street  of  May),  and  the  Borgo  Allegro, 
where  Cimabue  painted  his  famous  Madonna  for  the  chapel 
of  Santa  Maria  Novella.  The  Street  of  the  Lamb  still 
skirts  the  Murate,  now  the  city  prison,  and  once  the  con- 
vent of  noble  ladies,  erected  at  the  extreme  limit  of  town 
wall,  where  Catherine  de'  Medici  was  educated.  The  young 
men  still  linger  at  the  corner  of  the  Oranges,  where  the 
singers  of  the  populace  have  met  on  fine  evenings  and  im- 
provised melodies  to  the  accompaniment  of  guitars  for 
generations.  The  Street  of  the  Geese  invites  the  pedes- 
trian, as  here  the  ancient  bakery  of  the  Campanile  of 
Giotto  makes  the  delicate  ring  of  cake,  the  ciamhelle,  eaten 
in  the  day  of  Michelangelo. 

(Why  is  the  honest,  fatted  goose  of  Michaelmas  and 
Christmas,  dear  to  the  household  of  England,  France,  and 
Germany,  scorned  by  the  Florence  market,  where  the  bird 


THE   STREET  OF  THE   WATERMELON.  7 

does  not  venture  to  make  an  appearance,  unless  in  the 
guise  of  pdte-de-foie-gras?  Delicacy  of  appetite  in  a  peo- 
ple of  farinaceous  diet  cannot  explain  the  absence  of  the 
goose,  since  the  Florentine  is  fond  of  pork,  stewed  in  a 
saucepan  with  vegetables,  or  eaten  raw  after  such  primitive 
domestic  curing  as  sprinkling  with  salt  and  hanging  up  in 
a  cellar.  A  paternal  municipality  must  needs  restrain,  by 
law,  this  penchant  for  raw  pig,  by  forbidding  the  sale  before 
October  within  the  city  gates.  The  melancholy  fact  re- 
mains that  the  goose  does  not  haunt  the  Arno  shore  as  it 
does  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  the  Meurthe,  the  Seine  Infd- 
rieure,  or  the  stubble  fields  of  Arezzo,  while  the  Capitoline 
sentinel  must  linger,  if  only  in  tradition,  on  the  Roman 
Campagna.) 

What  memories  the  names  of  the  ancient  by-ways  awaken 
of  rich  pageants,  the  pomp  of  religious  processions,  fierce 
conflicts  of  opposing  political  factions,  and  high  garden 
walls,  sheltering  pomegranate  trees,  parterres  of  roses  and 
violets,  with  a  pink  cloud  of  blossoming  shrubbery  occa- 
sionally visible  above  the  boundary  of  parapet ! 

Our  Street  of  the  Watermelon  recalls  the  tender  twilight 
of  summer  nights  merging  from  August  to  September. 
Groups  of  the  people,  happy,  tranquil,  and  indolent,  are 
then  seated  on  the  stone  bench  flanking  a  palace,  eating 
slices  of  the  luscious  fruit,  or  gathered  about  the  little 
stands  of  the  venders  in  the  square  of  the  Baptistery  and 
along  the  Via  Calzajuoli.  How  the  strings  of  tinted  lan- 
terns sway  above  the  piles  of  huge  green  balls,  while  flam- 
ing torches  shed  fitful  gleams  on  the  bronze  doors  of  Ghi- 
berti,  the  campanile,  and  the  Duomo  opposite,  and  even 
the  statues  in  the  niches  of  Or  San  Michele !  The  flick- 
ering ray  of  torch  and  Chinese  lantern,  the  deep  shadow 
of  a  sculptured  archway,  and  the  crowd  ebbing  and  flowing, 
with  laughter,  gossip,  and  song,  devouring  the  plebeian 
fruit,  —  such  is  the  picture  of  the  summer  night. 


8  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Why  Street  of  the  Watermelon?  Did  the  melon  first 
reach  the  thirsty  lips  of  the  populace  by  this  gate,  promis- 
ing delicious  coolness  of  crimson  pulp  within  firm  emerald 
rind?  Some  mediaeval  urchin  may  have  sighed  in  an 
ecstasy  of  satiety,  "  Let  the  lane  henceforth  be  known  as 
the  Via  del  Cocomero." 

Whence  came  the  fruit  ?  Did  a  Persian,  pining  for 
the  autumn  food  of  the  population  of  Iran,  as  for  the 
peaches  of  Ispahan,  or  the  pears  of  Nathenz,  ripen  Tuscan 
melons  in  wistful  remembrance  of  the  hoard  of  the  Kum 
bazaar  ? 

Inseparably  associated  with  this  phase  of  street  chris- 
tening, the  emblems  of  certain  families  evince  a  grain  of 
sly  humor.  The  border  of  garlic  around  the  escutcheon 
of  the  Agli;  a  cluster  of  shalots  for  the  Scalogni;  fig- 
leaves  delicately  sculptured  on  the  mansion  of  Messer 
Foglia,  in  the  Old  Market;  or  the  three  poppies  on  the 
shield  of  the  Salimbeni,  in  the  Via  Porta  Rossa,  with 
the  warning  attached  to  the  somnolent  flowers,  "  Sleep 
not "  (Per  non  dormire),  —  may  have  possessed  equal 
value  with  the  lions  rampant  on  gold  and  silver  ground, 
and  the  mailed  arm  grasping  a  battle-axe  of  haughty 
neighbors. 

What  may  have  been  the  coat-of-arms  of  the  Baronci, 
who  dwelt  in  the  shadow  of  the  Duomo,  in  Boccaccio's 
tale  of  the  "Jest  of  Michael  Scalza"  ?  We  are  told  that 
this  sprightly  young  gentleman  laid  a  wager  of  a  supper 
for  six  persons  on  the  assertion  of  the  Baronci  being 
not  only  the  most  ancient  family  in  Florence,  but  in  the 
whole  world.  The  race  in  question  had  clearly  been 
fashioned  when  Nature  was  in  her  infancy,  and  resembled 
the  drawings  of  children.  One  had  too  broad  a  coun- 
tenance, another  a  narrow  face,  a  third  a  hooked  chin,  a 
fourth  a  nose  an  ell  long,  a  fifth  squinting  eyes.  Conse- 
quently the  Baronci  were   the  oldest,  and   therefore  the 


THE  STREET  OF  THE   WATERMELON.  9 

most  noble  citizens.  Satire  triumphed,  and  Michael  Scalza 
won  his  wager. 

The  emblem  of  Florence  should  have  been  the  domestic 
cat,  instead  of  the  lion.  Whence  came  the  first  cat, 
entering  into  tranquil  and  assured  possession  of  the  Flor- 
entine heart  and  hearthstone,  with  a  majestic,  feline  calm- 
ness of  deportment  ?  At  what  date  did  Grimalkin  appear 
in  the  page  of  history,  —  deft,  sleek,  quiet,  with  mysterious 
green  eyes  shining  in  the  obscurity,  or,  yielding  to  sudden 
fierceness  of  tooth  and  claw,  render  urgent  a  visit  to  the 
hospital  for  speedy  cauterization  of  wounds  on  the  part  of 
scared  youth  or  teasing  urchin  ? 

Poor  old  women  hug  their  furry  pets  in  their  arms,  sus- 
picious of  the  readiness  of  wretches  —  former  denizens  of 
the  quarter  of  the  Old  Market,  and  now  banished  to  the 
San  Frediano  quarter  across  the  river  —  to  pop  Pussy  into 
the  soup-pot  of  famine.  Gentle  old  men  talk  in  coaxing 
accents  to  the  brindled  friend  of  the  court  and  kitchen, 
receiving  responsive  caresses  of  arched  back,  rubbed  affec- 
tionately against  a  rheumatic  knee. 

Note  the  mantle  of  good  fortune  that  protects  the  cat 
among  a  people  cruel  to  animals.  To  maltreat  Puss  will 
surely  bring  speedy  misfortune  on  a  brutal  man ;  while  to 
find  a  dead  animal  in  a  newly  occupied  abode  is  the  worst 
of  omens. 

For  the  one  American  woman  mentioned  by  an  English 
author  as  deriving  fresh  courage  in  exile  from  contempla- 
tion of  Albertinelli's  beautiful  picture  of  the  Salutation  in 
the  Uffizi  Gallery,  many  a  weary  tourist,  bored  with  guide- 
books, and  harassed  in  mind  by  dates,  has  brightened  to 
a  sentiment  of  pleasure  at  sight  of  Puss-in-Boots.  The 
Florence  cat  has  purred  a  welcome  more  or  less  airy,  yet 
needing  no  interpreter  of  tongues  to  assure  the  dejected 
stranger  that  the  world  is  small  and  the  human  family 
one. 


10  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  Street  of  the  Watermelon  is  a  cat  paradise,  like  the 
other  thoroughfares  of  the  city. 

The  cat  of  the  antiquarian,  large,  plump,  and  with  a 
lustrous,  tawny  coat  of  rich  fur,  steps  daintily  over  the 
laces  and  brocades  of  the  shop-window,  to  seat  himself  in 
a  superb  Chinese  punch-bowl,  where  he  blinks  and  dozes 
in  the  sun,  with  half-closed  eyes,  like  a  miniature  tiger  of 
a  zoological  garden. 

The  companion  of  the  dealer  in  old  books,  lean,  wiry, 
and  gray,  resembles  the  familiar  spirit  of  a  wizard,  and 
hunts  mice  in  dark  nooks,  as  if  versed  in  secrets  of  Black 
Art. 

The  tabby  of  the  rosy  vegetable-woman  is  short,  stumpy, 
and  plebeian  in  type,  with  white  paws  like  mittens,  and  a 
shirt-front ;  while  a  sinister  demon,  with  yellow  eyes,  lurks 
in  the  cellar  of  the  coal-merchant. 

The  little  Agata,  the  porter's  daughter,  has  a  cat,  whether 
she  wishes  it  or  not,  for  a  portly,  black  animal  has  walked 
into  the  vestibule  and  taken  cool  possession  of  the  prem- 
ises, in  marked  contrast  to  canine  deprecation  of  hostility 
under  similar  circumstances. 

"  It  will  not  go  away,"  Agata  explains,  regarding  the 
intruder  without  enthusiasm.  "  I  try  to  drive  it  off  with  a 
stick,  but  it  seems  to  take  a  beating  as  a  joke." 

"  A  black  cat  brings  luck,  Agata." 

"  Yes,"  assents  the  girl,  smilingly. 

There  is  a  cat  that  knows  its  own  mind  in  choosing  a 
home.  Of  course  the  gentle  Agata  will  feed  and  shelter 
the  outcast  thrust  upon  her  benevolence. 

Each  of  these  animals  has  a  fashion  of  pausing  on  the 
threshold  at  times,  and  gazing  up  and  down  the  street,  as 
if  inspecting  the  pedestrians,  precisely  as  do  their  masters 
in  a  moment  of  leisure.  Now  an  odd  creature  approaches, 
and  pauses  to  feed  the  cats  with  a  dainty  morsel  taken  from 
a  capacious  pocket.     She  is  the  English  woman  so  familiar 


THE  STREET  OF  THE  WATERMELON.  11 

to  Florence,  and  more  mad  than  forestieri  are  usually  sup- 
posed to  be.  The  cats  are  her  sole  care.  Poveretta! 
Some  affair  of  the  heart  turned  her  brain  in  early  maiden- 
hood. Let  her  have  her  own  way  in  peace.  It  is  all  the 
same  to  cat  and  citizen.  The  insane  woman  has  a  round, 
white,  and  vacant  face,  curiously  resembling  the  physiog- 
nomy of  Maggy  in  "  Little  Dorrit."  She  wears  a  faded 
gown  of  a  bygone  fashion,  a  hoop-skirt,  a  flowered  shawl, 
and  a  large  poke  bonnet  of  yellow  straw,  with  the  ribbons 
of  white  watered  silk  floating  over  her  shoulders.  She 
might  have  emerged  from  a  woodcut  of  Cruikshank,  in  a 
city  where  eccentric  waifs  of  all  nationalities  abound.  The 
cats  receive  their  gifts  capriciously.  The  vegetable-woman 
smiles  compassionately.  Surely  it  is  an  indication  of  re- 
markable refinement  in  a  people,  that  no  one  mocks  at  nor 
molests  her  footsteps  with  an  attendant,  jeering  rabble  of 
boys,  as  might  so  readily  happen  in  the  large  capitals  of 
the  world.  Here  is  a  limit  to  the  street  Arab's  witticisms, 
who  sang  beneath  the  windows  of  the  archiepiscopal  palace, 
when  Pope  Martin  V.  was  lodged  there  in  an  hour  of  mis- 
fortune, that  he  was  not  worth  a  penny,  thereby  laying  up 
a  future  grudge  of  affronted  dignity  for  the  Flower  City  in 
the  mind  of  the  pontiff. 

The  English  woman  rambles  on,  with  the  purposeless 
movements  of  an  unsettled  mind.  Doubtless  she  will  find 
her  way  to  that  palace  courtyard  of  the  Lung'  Arno  Nuovo, 
which  is  a  startling  feline  nightmare,  where  heads  peer 
out  of  the  shrubbery  in  every  stage  of  cathood.  Nor  will 
she  return  home  without  pausing  at  the  cloister  of  the 
Church  of  San  Lorenzo,  where  homeless  animals  receive 
municipal  bounty  on  occasion,  possibly  in  imitation  of  the 
hospital  once  existing  near  the  Gate  of  Victory  at  Cairo. 

The  Street  of  the  Watermelon  is  silent.  The  sound  of 
passing  vehicles,  the  strident  clamor  of  the  lace  and  shoe 
podler,  the  plaintive,  minor  note  of  the  knife-grinder,  pierce 


12  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

the  stillness  only  to  die  away  to  quiet  once  more.  "  He 
who  is  contented  enjoys  life,"  says  the  proverb,  reputed  to 
be  so  venerable  that  it  has  grown  a  white  beard. 

Reader,  come  and  dwell  in  the  Street  of  the  Water- 
melon ! 

Are  you  wearied  of  warring  elements  in  the  terrific  veloc- 
ity of  movement  of  the  nineteenth  century,  or  merely  "  half 
sick  of  shadows,"  like  the  Lady  of  Shalott  ?  Contentment, 
the  old  man  with  the  white  beard,  reigns  here. 

Do  you  possess  those  Greek  qualities  of  character  still 
possible  in  our  day,  and  discover  a  charm  in  water  flowing 
from  the  rock,  the  movements  of  a  lizard,  the  music  of  a 
cricket  in  a  garden  ?  Then  note  the  yellow  roses  crowning 
the  chrome-tinted  convent  wall  of  the  Via  Colonna  in  May 
sunshine,  the  Franciscan  monk  pausing  on  the  step  of 
Giotto's  Campanile  in  the  light  of  morning,  the  noonday 
radiance  resting  on  the  head  of  the  Perseus  of  the  Loggia 
de'  Lanzi.  Better  still,  does  your  soul  respond  to  the  very 
soul  of  these  stones  which  are  so  eloquent  of  lives  long 
vanished,  whose  memory  lingers  in  our  street,  imparting  to 
the  tranquil  nook  a  germ  of  immortality  ?  If  you  come, 
"  do  not  leave  the  sky  out  of  your  landscape  "  to  brood  over 
the  gutter  incidents  of  the  town,  and  poison  your  mind  with 
the  sewer  emanations  of  the  daily  tide,  always  possible  here 
as  elsewhere.  In  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  the  angel  patiently 
proffers  the  crown  to  the  man  who  anxiously  wields  his 
muck  rake  to  gather  his  harvest  of  straws. 

If  a  traveller  hastening  on  elsewhere,  at  least  pass  rever- 
ently, in  remembrance  that  while  Florence  was  "his  beauti- 
ful sheepfold  "  to  the  benign  Saint  Zenobius,  and  to  Dante 
the  famous  daughter  of  Rome,  Savonarola,  deeply  imbued 
with  poetical  and  monastic  mysticism,  pronounced  the  fair 
city  the  New  Jerusalem,  and  the  shrine  of  devout  pilgrim- 
age for  the  remote  corners  of  the  earth,  covered  by  the 
odor  of  her  lilies,  as  the  bride  of  Jesus  Christ. 


THE  STREET  OF  THE  WATERMELON.  13 

The  setting  sun  floods  tower,  roof,  and  streets  with  a 
sudden  fiery  radiance  of  light.  Gradually  the  glow  fades 
from  the  heavens,  and  the  pure,  chrysoprase  tints  of  the 
Italian  twilight  succeed.  Then  the  Duomo  bell  rings  out 
on  the  air,  deep,  rich,  and  sonorous  in  tone,  lapsing  slowly 
to  silence  once  more.  Florence  rests  in  the  shadow  of  her 
past,  as  does  the  stranger  within  her  gates. 


14  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 


CHAPTER  II. 


A   FLORENCE  WINDOW. 


"  \15/E  live  in  two  worlds,  —  a  world  of  thought  and 

^^      a  world  of  sight." 

The  street  is  full  of  memories.  At  the  corner  yonder  is 
the  famous  Tabernacle  of  the  Five  Lamps.  The  Academy 
of  Fine  Arts,  formerly  the  Hospital  of  San  Matteo,  flanks 
the  Piazza  of  St.  Mark.  Michelangelo's  David,  fashioned 
out  of  the  block  of  marble  left  over  from  the  Duomo, 
stands  in  the  rotunda,  forever  displaced  from  significant 
guardianship  of  the  gates  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  as  the 
majestic  sentinel  of  centuries.  Will  the  dark  and  silent 
halls  of  the  Academy,  filled  with  grave  Madonnas  of  Cim- 
abue,  richly  draped  saints  by  Botticelli,  mystical  Apostles 
and  Magdalenes  of  Perugino,  and  whole  garlands  of  Fra 
Angelico's  angels,  blooming  in  cold  and  sombre  inner 
rooms,  ever  cease  to  be  haunted  by  enthusiastic  youth  of 
other  lands,  intent  on  carrying  away  some  of  its  treasures 
in  copies  ? 

The  halo  of  a  more  or  less  mythical  interest  rests  on 
Verrocchio's  severe  Christ  and  Baptist,  with  the  charming 
celestial  form  on  the  left,  attributed  to  his  pupil,  Leonardo 
da  Vinci.  Did  Yerrocchio  cast  aside  his  brush  forever, 
after  contemplating  the  softness  and  grace  of  the  attendant 
angel  executed  by  Leonardo,  aware  of  the  youth's  genius, 
and  subsequently  adhere  to  the  chisel  ? 

Scholars  of  all  nationalities  flock  to  this  school  of 
design,  having  for  escutcheon  three  garlands  of  oak,  olive, 


A  FLORENCE  WINDOW.  15 

and  laurel,  with  the  motto  :  Levan  di  terra  al  cielo  il  nostra 
inteletto. 

Donatello  once  dwelt  in  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon 
opposite  the  suppressed  convent  of  San  Niccol6. 

Farther  on  is  the  Niccolini  Theatre,  where  debutantes 
from  Russia,  England,  and  America  occasionally  sing  in 
opera,  while  at  other  times  drama,  comedy,  and  the  magi- 
cians of  legerdemain  hold  a  stage  first  organized  by  a 
company  of  young  men  in  the  seventeenth  century,  after 
the  suppression  of  their  club  in  the  Uffizi.  These  ardent 
amateurs,  adopting  as  their  emblem  a  bombshell  about  to 
burst,  and  the  name  of  the  Academy  of  the  Infoncati,  gave 
representations  before  their  patron,  Don  Lorenzo,  son  of 
Ferdinand  I.,  as  modern  society  finds  diversion  in  posing 
on  the  boards  of  miniature  private  theatres,  or  beneath  the 
velvet  curtains  of  drawing-rooms,  to  recite  some  piquant 
French  comedetta. 

After  the  death  of  Don  Lorenzo  the  house  in  the  Yia  del 
Cocomero  was  taken,  and  became  in  course  of  time  the 
Niccolini  Theatre,  in  honor  of  the  modern  poet,  when  the 
Foscarini  had  been  here  represented. 

The  threads  are  manifold  in  the  twisted  cable  of  street. 
That  line  of  massive  palaces  opposite  reminds  one  of  Mr. 
Ruskin's  words  :  "  You  may  read  the  character  of  men,  as 
of  nations,  in  their  art,  as  in  a  mirror.  A  man  may  hide 
from  you  himself,  or  misrepresent  in  every  other  way  ; 
but  he  cannot  in  his  work  ;  there,  be  sure  you  have  him  to 
the  inmost.  If  the  work  is  a  cobweb,  you  know  it  was 
made  by  a  spider ;  if  a  honeycomb,  by  a  bee ;  a  worm-cast 
is  thrown  by  a  worm,  and  a  nest  wreathed  by  a  bird." 

The  Ricasoli  property  dominates  the  roofs,  as  the  name 
does  the  street,  furnishing  a  thread  of  interest  in  Florentine 
history,  if  the  student  is  inclined  to  follow  genealogical 
root  and  branch  of  an  ancient  race. 

Pious  ladies  Ricasoli  there  were  long  ago,  who  endowed 


16  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

monasteries  with  their  inherited  wealth,  and  retired  to 
nunneries  themselves  on  occasion,  thus  emulating  the 
religious  zeal  of  the  Countess  Mathilda  of  Tuscany. 

Doughty  knights  Ricasoli  there  have  been;  with  mer- 
chants dealing  in  wool,  and  settling  in  the  town  ;  pages  of 
the  Medici  retinue  ;  one  lad  instructed  in  mathematics  and 
philosophy  by  such  a  tutor  as  Galileo ;  cavaliers  of  the 
order  of  Saint  Stephen  ;  archbishops  and  priests  of  the  new 
company  of  the  Jesuits ;  and  thence,  through  the  Bourbon, 
grand-ducal  reigns,  to  the  patriot  of  our  day  decorated  by 
the  King  of  United  Italy,  Victor  Emanuel,  with  the  collar 
of  the  Annunziata. 

A  noble  name,  deserving  to  reign  over  our  Street  of  the 
Watermelon,  the  Ricasoli  possess  no  charm  equal  to  the 
suggestiveness  of  that  narrow  window  of  the  Cantina^ 
where  the  wicker  flasks  of  oil  and  wine,  those  graceful 
bubbles  of  Tuscan  industry,  may  be  doled  out  to  the  grate- 
ful citizen  by  the  steward. 

The  flasks  are  the  harvest  of  country  estates  in  the 
Chianti  region,  and  the  castle  villa  of  Brolio,  now  noted 
for  its  vintage  rather  than  for  being  the  most  strongly 
fortified  mansion  in  Tuscany,  prepared  to  defy  French  and 
Spanish  armies,  or  the  hosts  of  rival  Siena  and  Lucca  in 
the  Middle  Ages. 

Francesco  Redi,  physician  educated  at  Pisa,  who  sang 
his  celebrated  dithyrambics  to  Bacchus,  might  have  extolled 
the  grapes  of  the  Brolio  vineyards  as  well  as  bestowed 
the  praise,  "  Montepulciano  is  the  king  of  wines." 

Quaint  and  musty  volume,  Redi's  "  Bacco  in  Toscana," 
having  as  frontispiece  the  portrait  of  the  author,  wearing  a 
magnificent  curled  wig  such  as  no  modern  author  can 
boast!  We  smile,  as  future  generations  will  marvel  at 
our  conceits,  in  reading  the  notes  explanatory  of  the  use 
of  a  new  beverage  in  England  known  as  tea,  with  mention 
of  another  fluid  called  cider,  and  still  another  innovation 


A  FLORENCE   WINDOW.  17 

on  the  continent,  coffee,  obtained  from  the  Arabs,  —  decoc- 
tions doubtless  injurious  in  comparison  with  the  generous 
Italian  wines. 

Patriarchal  phases  linger  in  the  Flower  City,  amid 
change  and  innovation.  Is  an  "  infernal  ball "  thrown 
from  a  window  of  the  Via  Nazionale  on  the  populace  cele- 
brating the  escape  of  King  Humbert  from  assassination 
at  Naples  ?  —  a  cry  for  the  Misericordia  rises  above  the 
pealing  of  the  trumpets,  as  it  has  clamored,  in  disaster, 
for  six  hundred  years.  Does  the  father  and  bread-winner 
of  the  family  sicken  of  fever  in  the  autumn,  imbibed  from 
the  mouldy  well  of  the  court  adjacent  to  his  cobbler's 
stall;  or  the  son,  an  apprentice  to  the  trade  of  mosaic- 
worker,  whose  nights  are  devoted  to  strolling  about  the 
streets,  twanging  guitar  and  mandolin,  in  company  with 
other  youth,  and  slender,  sallow  daughter,  clad  in  flimsy 
gown  for  the  Sunday  walk  along  the  Arno  bank  to  the 
Cascine  in  the  piercing  tramontana  wind,  suffer  a  lung 
congestion,  —  the  frequent  mal  di  petto  ?  —  there  is  the 
hospital  ready  to  receive  them,  founded  by  worthy  Folco 
Portinari,  father  of  Dante's  Beatrice,  at  the  suggestion  of 
his  servant,  Monna  Tessa,  whose  presence  in  ward  and 
cloister  seems  to  still  smile  benevolently  on  each  new- 
comer to  her  precincts. 

Certain  old  palaces  sell  the  oil  and  wine  of  their  farms 
to  citizens  through  the  little  wicket.  The  world  changes  ; 
the  landmarks  of  tradition  disappear  ;  and  the  folk-lore  of 
the  peasantry  is  dying  away  to  silence  in  all  countries, 
even  as  botanists  state  that  flowers  become  extinct  before 
emigrant  plants  brought  by  man. 

Where,  save  In  Florence,  does  the  steward  vend  the  oil 
and  wine  through  the  wicket  of  the  palace  wall ;  the  pop- 
ulace still  call  for  aid  from  the  Misericordia,  in  public 
calamity,  the  band  of  black -robed  brothers  traversing  the 
town  with  bier  or  litter ;  Santa  Maria  Nuova  receive  the 

2 


IS  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

latest  patient,  not  into  the  commonplace  municipal  hospital 
of  other  localities,  but  within  the  portal  of  good  Monna 
Tessa?  We  may  muse  at  leisure  on  the  growth  of  the 
town,  in  the  open  window,  from  the  camp  of  the  Roman 
general  in  the  field  of  flowers,  and  the  Fiesolan  weekly 
market,  held  in  the  space  around  the  Temple  of  Mars,  now 
the  Baptistery,  to  the  splendors  which  astonished  Ariosto, 
who  exclaimed, — 

*'  While  gazing  on  thy  villa-studded  hills, 
*T  would  seem  as  though  the  earth  grew  palaces, 
As  she  is  wont  by  nature  to  bring  forth 
Young  shoots,  and  leafy  plants,  and  flowery  shrubs." 

To  formulate  even  a  transient,  mental  comparison  of  the 
features  of  social  development  may  resemble  the  foun- 
dations and  successive  stages  of  Giotto's  Tower. 

There  was  an  age  of  leather,  the  time  of  simplicity  and 
sobriety  lamented  by  Dante,  when  the  citizens  were  reli- 
able and  virtuous.  Dwellings  and  manners  were  rude. 
The  household  furniture  consisted  of  the  bride's  chest  and 
a  few  stools ;  the  ornaments  of  the  walls  were  trophies  and 
weapons,  wherewith  to  arm  the  retinue  of  serfs  and  de- 
pendants. One  large  fire  prepared  the  frugal  meals,  and 
the  family  gathered  near  the  chimney  on  winter  evenings 
in  baronial  fashion.  Husband  and  wife  ate  from  the  same 
trencher,  while  the  servants  held  torches,  candles  of  wax 
or  tallow  being  unknown.  Wine  was  used  sparingly,  and 
not  in  summer.  Men  wore  leather  cloaks,  or  woollen  gar- 
ments without  fur,  and  women  simple  raiment.  Maidens 
married  on  slender  dowries,  and  were  contented  with  a 
tunic  at  home,  or  a  cassock  and  linen  robe  abroad.  The 
narrow  casements  were  protected  from  cold  by  wooden 
shutters,  and  a  screen  shielded  the  inmates  from  the  heat. 
The  pride  of  the  father  was  in  his  horses  and  arms,  and 
the  strength  of  the  lofty  tower  built  at  an  angle  of  the 


A  FLORENCE  WINDOW.  19 

niansion,  entered  by  a  steep  stairway,  with  loophole  in  the 
masonry,  balcony,  scaffolding,  and  parapet  ready  to  bristle 
with  lances,  boar-spears,  and  cross-bows  in  defence.  A 
store  of  corn  seemed  riches.  Good  old  times,  praised  by 
Cacciaguida :  — 

**  I  saw  Bellincion  Berti  walk  abroad 
In  leather  girdle,  and  a  clasp  of  bone, 

And,  with  no  artificial  coloring  on  her  cheeks, 

His  lady  leave  the  glass.     The  sons  I  saw 

Of  Nerli  and  of  Vechio,  well  content 

With  unrobed  jerkin,  and  their  good  dames  handling 

The  spindle  and  the  flax." 

An  age  of  wool  succeeded,  with  dealings  in  Pyrenean 
fleeces,  and  the  skilful  redressing  of  cloths  of  France  and 
England.  Grave  magistrates  banqueted  on  boiled  par- 
tridge, tripe,  and  a  plate  of  sardines.  Wool-dressing  and 
banking  led  to  brocade  in  time. 

Saint  Damien  had  already  found  occasion  to  reprove  the 
clergy  for  luxury.  The  priesthood  were  accused  of  scent- 
ing the  holy  water  with  Indian  perfumes,  of  decking  their 
chambers  with  curious  hangings,  and  covering  the  choir- 
stalls  of  churches  with  tapestries.  Royal  purple  was 
scorned,  as  a  single  color,  coverlets  being  dyed  like  the 
rainbow ;  while  honest  sheep  and  lambs  were  rejected  in 
favor  of  the  furs  of  foreign  lands,  —  ermine,  sables,  marten, 
and  fox. 

Florence  was  a  free  city,  with  all  offices  open  to  each 
citizen.  The  germ  of  strict  probity,  according  to  the  stat- 
utes, bore  fruit  in  the  rapid  development  of  the  relations 
of  the  hotteghe,  and  the  fondaco,  thirty  thousand  workmen 
at  set  wages  having  been  employed  by  such  proprietors  as 
the  Capponi,  the  Ridolfi,  Pucci,  and  Corsini.  The  Arno 
capital  had  agents  at  Paris,  as  had  the  Genoese  at  Nimes, 
while  the  fairs  held  at  Beaucaire,  Forcalquier,  and  Troyes 


20  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

were  of  great  importance  in  the  extension  of  this  branch 
of  industry. 

The  portrait  of  Michele  di  Lando,  wool-comber  and 
patriot,  was  exhibited  in  public  each  year,  at  the  Assump- 
tion of  the  Virgin.  The  Guild-hall  of  the  Arte  della 
Lana,  in  the  Canonica  of  Or  San  Michele,  had  for  arms  a 
lamb,  with  a  flag  and  a  comb,  and  the  Lily  above  in  a 
blue  field.  The  device  of  the  Calimala,  venders  of  French 
cloth,  was  a  gold  eagle  standing  on  a  bale  of  wool,  in  a 
red  field.  Rivalling  Pisa,  Genoa,  Siena,  and  Lucca  in  man- 
ufactures, Florence  is  said  to  have  resembled  the  Dutch 
at  that  period. 

If  Bellincion  Berti  be  accepted  as  the  type  of  the  leather 
period,  Agnolo  Pandolfini  embodies  the  virtues  of  the  wool 
era,  the  excellent  burgher  author  of  the  well-known  treatise 
on  the  government  of  the  family,  and  hospitable  master  of 
the  villa  at  Signa,  where  Pope  Eugenius  IV.  was  entertained. 
Pandolfini's  maxim  was,  "We  own  in  this  world  only 
our  souls,  our  bodies,  and  our  time." 

Then  ensued  the  full  flowering  of  the  age  of  silk. 
The  art  of  silk  weaving,  known  to  the  Greeks  before  the 
twelfth  century,  had  been  introduced  into  Spain  by  the 
Arabs,  and  flourished  at  Almeria  and  Lisbon,  whence  it 
spread  to  Genoa  and  Lucca.  Count  Roger  II.,  of  Sicily, 
plundered  Corfu,  Corinth,  Thebes,  Cephalonia,  and  Athens, 
and  brought  away  silk  workers  among  the  slaves  settled  in 
the  royal  palace  at  Palermo. 

Charles  of  Anjou,  accompanied  by  his  Provencal  knights 
in  plumed  helmets  and  gold  collars,  conquering  Naples  in 
1266,  is  held  responsible  for  the  setting  of  evil  fashions  to 
other  cities.  Linen  and  wool  were  speedily  replaced  by 
velvet,  taffetas,  crimson  silk  lined  with  miniver,  and  neck- 
laces of  emeralds  and  diamonds. 

Sacchetti  found  the  dresses  of  the  Florentine  dames  too 
low,  or  rising  to  an  absurd  height  above  the  ears.    Young 


A  FLORENCE  WINDOW.  21 

girls  were  bold,  and  wore  little  hoods  fringed  with  gold 
and  pearls.  Young  men  sported  long  hair,  and  clothing 
which  resembled  stockings  for  tightness. 

These  strictures  of  the  mediaeval  chronicler  on  the  follies 
of  the  day  furnish  an  echo  to  the  strain  of  Lucian  of  Sa- 
mosata,  and  a  prelude  to  the  castigations  of  modern  satir- 
ists. In  vain  serious  rulers  rebuked  the  ladies  for  their 
coronets,  rich  tresses,  and  stuffs,  even  limiting  to  twelve 
the  clasps  of  their  waist-belts.  Emulation  of  other  cap- 
itals, noted  for  luxury,  held  full  sway.  How  about  the 
baronial  trencher  and  later  frugal  fare  now  ?  Capons,  pea- 
cocks, and  platters  of  meat,  garnished  with  almonds  and 
spices,  tempted  to  gluttony  in  feasting.  In  Lent,  roasted 
pike,  served  with  mustard,  salted  eels,  figs,  and  sweets, 
solaced  the  penitent,  temptingly  arrayed  with  fine  linen, 
silver  plate,  Venetian  glass,  and  the  most  beautiful  specimens 
of  goldsmith's  work  in  niello  and  enamelled  vessels.  Furni- 
ture obtained  in  trade  with  Flanders,  Spain,  and  France 
adorned  the  mansions,  together  with  the  statues  of  con- 
temporary Italian  sculptors,  and  the  wood- work  of  the  Del 
Tasso  in  heavily  beamed  ceiling  and  wainscot.  The  Arte 
della  Seta  in  the  Via  For  Santa  Maria  had  for  arms  a  red 
door,  closed,  on  a  white  ground. 

The  candle  was  burned  right  merrily  at  both  ends  ! 
How  gorgeous  was  the  crimson  brocade  woven  by  Floren- 
tine looms  at  a  date  when  the  youth  invited  the  damsels 
to  the  May  dances,  held  in  loggia  and  open  square,  wearing 
the  garlands  of  Ghirlandajo  on  their  heads,  and  changing 
their  raiment  between  the  dances.  The  fame  of  these 
tissues  spread  farther  than  the  Via  de'  Velluti.  Barbara 
von  Cilly,  wife  of  the  Emperor  Sigismund,  once  sent  her 
people  with  two  hundred  florins  and  three  bars  of  gold, 
wherewith  to  purchase  the  stuff. 

Banking  enterprises,  a  new  system  of  bills  of  exchange, 
loans  to  the  Pope  and  foreign  sovereigns,  and  a  money- 


22  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

changer's  co-operation,  with  such  coat-of-arms  as  gold 
coins  placed  side  by  side  on  a  red  ground,  resulted  in  usury, 
with  attendant  deceit  and  fraud.  Impoverished  families 
may  still  derive  sad  satisfaction  from  the  bankruptcy  of 
ancestors  in  the  failure  of  Edward  III.  of  England  to  repay 
his  loans. 

Filippo  Strozzi  is  the  best  representative  of  the  splendor, 
effeminacy,  and  vice  of  the  silken  time,  which  has  endured 
in  the  degeneracy  of  our  own  day.  The  fleece  of  wool  and 
the  tiny  cocoon  of  silk  were  the  elements  of  which  the  web 
of  Florentine  history  was  largely  woven. 

The  artists  made  of  Florence  the  flower  which,  "  when 
fully  blown,  instead  of  withering  on  the  stalk,  turned  to 
stone."  The  life  of  the  artists  is  the  fountain,  pure  and 
sparkling,  of  wit,  folly,  and  wisdom,  of  which  each  genera- 
tion drinks  with  fresh  interest  and  amusement. 

We  behold  the  great  men  whose  works  are  familiar  to 
us  in  other  lands,  as  forming  a  part  of  such  different 
surroundings  in  museums,  public  galleries,  and  the  cher- 
ished collections  of  engravings  of  the  home  circle,  here 
indulging  in  the  pranks  of  the  Bottega,  and  the  repartee 
of  public  pleasantries.  Humorous  Giotto,  with  his  heart  of 
the  peasant  and  his  soul  of  the  artist,  draws  the  circle 
with  one  sweep  of  the  brush,  charged  with  red  paint. 
Simple-minded  Donatello  suspends  his  money  in  a  basket 
from  the  ceiling,  for  the  convenience  of  his  friends,  and 
supported  by  the  Medici,  is  followed  to  the  tomb  by  all  the 
town. 

We  behold  them  in  the  young  comrades,  Ghiberti  and 
Donatello,  visiting  Rome,  and  searching  the  ruins  for  clas- 
sical antiquities,  when  the  Romans  suspected  them  of 
delving  for  hidden  wealth. 

More  noble  still  is  the  contemplation  of  the  climbing 
of  men  by  "  their  dead  selves  to  better  things "  and 
higher  effort. 


A   FLORENCE   WINDOW.  23 

Benedetto  da  Majano,  wood-carver,  unpacking  his  richly 
inlaid  coffers  in  the  presence  of  King  Matthias  Corvinus  of 
Hungary,  found  them  dropping  in  pieces  from  the  effects 
of  sea-damp  on  the  voyage,  and  turned  to  the  use  of  mar- 
ble, as  a  more  durable  material,  and  gained  a  higher  rank 
of  excellence  as  a  sculptor. 

Benvenuto  Cellini,  the  magician,  at  work  on  chalices, 
enamelled  vases,  and  jewelled  cope-buttons,  when  praised 
for  the  cap  medal  he  was  executing,  by  Michelangelo,  was 
touched  with  a  noble  discontent  of  gem-setting  and  the  ex- 
quisite salt-cellars  and  wrought  caskets  of  his  fancy,  and 
may  have  first  dreamed  of  the  Perseus  at  the  moment. 

The  artists  solved  problems  of  linear  perspective,  learned 
to  fix  rectangular  planes  in  perfect  order,  and  to  set  figures 
in  proportion  and  advantageous  situation.  They  studied 
anatomy  in  the  cemeteries,  contemplating  the  muscles  and 
lines  of  the  human  form  as  Luca  Signorelli  copied  the 
corpse  of  his  son.  They  applied  geometrical  laws  to  com- 
position, projected  shadows,  and  learned  the  comparative 
values  of  light  and  shade  with  the  aid  of  artificial  illu- 
mination in  dark  spaces,  while  precision  of  drawing  and 
delicacy  of  touch  resulted  from  early  apprenticeship  to  the 
goldsmith,  as  the  statuesque  pose  and  system  of  moulding 
draperies  from  application  to  sculpture  in  bronze.  Color 
passed  through  the  crucible  of  trial  of  many  lives  before 
attaining  perfection  with  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Whole  fami- 
lies rose  to  fame,  and  all  longed  to  embellish  the  mother 
city,  Rome.  How  real  their  presence  in  this  quarter  of  an 
ancient  town ! 

Giotto,  going  to  San  Gallo  one  day,  paused  in  the  Street 
of  the  Watermelon  to  tell  a  story  to  a  friend,  when  a  pig, 
running  away,  knocked  him  down.  The  Raphael  of  early 
art  rose,  and  instead  of  abusing  the  animal  sacred  to 
Saint  Anthony,  declared  that  the  pig  was  right,  for  he 
had  already  made  fame  and  fortune  from  the  bristles  of 


24  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

a  race  to  which  he  had  never  given  as  much  as  a  cup 
of  broth. 

Cosimo  Rosselli  was  born  here.  Did  Cimabue  live  in 
our  narrow  way,  with  his  pupil  Giotto?  Did  Donatello 
actually  die  in  the  Via  Cocomero  ?  Was  it  in  yonder 
house,  where  the  five  lamps  still  swing  in  the  Tabernacle, 
that  roguish  Buffalmacco  frightened  Andrea  Tafi  into  cov- 
ering his  head  with  the  sheet  instead  of  rising  too  early, 
on  winter  mornings,  by  means  of  the  beetles,  carrying 
lighted  tapers  on  their  backs,  trotting  across  the  floor  in 
guise  of  evil  spirits  ? 

Buffalmacco  was  praised  by  Vasari  as  a  good  colorist, 
yet  he  remains  better  known  to  posterity  for  the  execution 
of  the  order  of  the  haughty  Ghibelline  bishop,  Guido  of 
Arezzo,  by  depicting  the  Lion  of  Florence  devouring  the 
Imperial  Eagle,  instead  of  the  reverse,  rather  than  as 
decorating  the  Badia  of  Settimo,  or  the  Ognissanti.  The 
memory  of  his  giving  to  the  impatient  people  of  Perugia 
their  patron  saint,  Ercolano,  crowned  with  a  diadem  of 
fishes,  or  of  his  dressing  a  figure  to  place  before  the  fres- 
cos in  the  convent  of  the  nuns  of  Faenza,  while  idle  else- 
where, as  well  as  persuading  the  sisters  that  sacramental 
wine  was  necessary  in  the  mixing  of  his  colors,  lingers 
after  his  works  at  Cortona,  Florence,  and  Arezzo  have 
faded  and  vanished. 

The  modern  Florentine  artists  perpetuate  the  spirit  of 
hoax  and  jest  in  their  club,  —  the  "  Circolo  Artistico  "  of  a 
neighboring  street.  Possibly  the  burlette  have  lost  some 
element  of  genuine  fun  in  a  more  artificial  age  of  gas  and 
electric  light. 

The  summoning  of  a  fire  brigade  on  April  Fool's  Day, 
with  real,  practicable  flames  visible  issuing  from  the  club 
windows,  loses  in  comparison  with  simple  Calendrino 
drawing  near  to  listen  to  the  discourse  of  waggish  Buffal- 
macco with  Maso  del   Saggio  in   the   Baptistery,  while 


A  FLORENCE  WINDOW.  25 

examining  a  new  tabernacle  above  an  altar.  The  gigantic 
paper  fish  of  April  first,  hung  from  the  casement,  has  none 
of  the  richness  of  detail  of  that  earlier  scene.  Maso 
gravely  described  the  locality  whence  came  the  precious 
stones  used  in  the  tabernacle  as  Berlinzone,  a  city  of 
the  Baschi,  where  the  inhabitants  tied  the  vines  with 
sausages,  and  a  goose  might  be  bought  for  a  penny,  with  a 
gosling  into  the  bargain,  while  the  mountains  were  made 
of  grated  Parmesan  cheese,  and  the  river  flowed  with  pure 
Malmsley  wine.  The  people  did  nothing  but  eat  maca- 
roons. Poor  Calendrino,  eagerly  attentive,  would  fain  seek 
the  land  of  macaroons,  being  only  deterred  by  the  thou- 
sands of  leagues  of  distance,  Berlinzone  proving  to  be  far- 
ther off  than  the  Abruzzi.  These  precious  stones,  too! 
Ah,  truly!  One  sort  was  made  into  mill-stones,  whole 
mountains  of  emeralds  existing,  larger  than  Monte  Morello. 
Then  the  casual  hint  was  dropped  that  the  other  stone,  the 
heliotrope  of  the  lapidary,  renders  invisible  the  possessor, 
and  was  plentiful  on  the  plains  of  the  Mugnone.  Calen- 
drino scoured  the  country  and  filled  his  house  with  worth- 
less, black  stones,  until  he  was  asked  if  he  intended  to 
build,  and  became  the  mockery  of  his  friends. 

Comparison  with  the  past  tends  to  dwarf  modern  talent. 
Thus,  the  most  skilful  culinary  effort  in  ball-room  suppers, 
served  by  the  Caf^  Doney  and  Giacosa,  cannot  equal  in 
flavor  the  banquets  of  the  Society  of  the  Cauldron,  given 
in  the  habitation  of  the  eccentric  sculptor  Rustici,  on  the 
Piazza  Annunziata,  where,  embittered  by  failure  in  art,  he 
kept  strange  pets,  —  a  hedgehog,  a  raven,  and  snakes. 

Twelve  artists,  musicians,  and  goldsmiths  brought  four 
guests  each  and  provided  an  original  dish  for  the  supper 
table,  which  was  placed  in  a  huge  cauldron,  with  the  handle 
serving  for  chandelier.  Sculptors  moulded  pastry  into 
classical  shapes,  and  architects  built  temples  of  jellies  and 
cakes.     The  goldsmith  Robetta  fashioned   an  anvil    and 


26  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

accoutrements  out  of  a  calf 's  head,  while  a  painter  treated 
roasted  pig  as  a  scullery  maid  spinning. 

Andrea  del  Sarto  brought  hither  his  celebrated  design 
of  the  Baptistery,  which  has  descended  to  us  entire  by 
means  of  many  chroniclers. 

Do  we  not  still  partake  of  that  octagonal  temple,  with 
sausage  columns,  cornices  of  sugar,  bases  and  capitals  of 
the  indispensable  Parmesan  cheese,  with  mosaic  pavement 
of  gelatine,  and  tribune  formed  of  a  cake  of  marchpane  ? 
Do  not  the  roasted  thrushes  of  choristers,  clad  in  pork, 
gathered  around  the  reading-desk  of  cold  veal,  holding  the 
choir-book,  with  pepper-corn  notes,  open  wide  their  beaks 
for  our  delectation,  guided  by  ortolans,  and  the  two  pigeon 
canons,  in  mantles  of  red  beetroot  ? 

These  men  kept  brain  and  eye  unclouded  for  the  most 
part  amid  the  petty  brawls  of  party  strife,  and  even  the 
great  disasters  of  their  age.  The  sublime  summit  of  artis- 
tic abstraction  was  attained  when  Perugino  and  Raphael 
worked  in  the  studio,  immortalizing  the  beautiful  and 
wicked  Baglioni  as  the  archangels  of  their  pictures,  while 
the  streets  of  Perugia  ran  with  blood. 

What  glimpses  of  character  are  afforded  by  the  letters 
and  documents  still  extant  1  How  vivid  the  anger  of  fussy, 
indignant  brother  David  that  Domenico  Ghirlandajo  should 
be  expected  to  subsist  on  water  soup  and  hard  cakes  by  the 
monks  of  Yallombrosa,  while  working  for  them,  which  led 
the  irate  kinsman  to  emphasize  his  displeasure  by  breaking 
the  tureens  on  the  head  of  the  attendant  friar  !  How  fresh 
the  fun  of  Mariotto  Albertinelli  and  his  pupils,  stealing  the 
food  of  the  devout  monks  from  the  sliding  panels  of  the 
cloister  cells  of  the  Certosa,  and  the  confusion  and  mutual 
recriminations  of  the  brethren  in  consequence,  —  each 
recluse  accusing  his  neighbor  of  unwarrantable  gluttony ! 
Uccelli,  the  man  of  much  study  and  small  fruit,  who  labored 
at  night  to  perfect  perspective,  fled  from  the  service  of  the 


A  FLORENCE   WINDOW.  27 

monks  of  San  Miniato  because  fed  too  exclusively  on 
cheese.  Giovanni  Santi,  the  father  of  Raphael,  in  his 
dedicatory  epistle  to  Guidabaldo  da  Montefeltro,  stated 
that  having  tried  various  ways  of  getting  a  livelihood,  he 
gave  himself  at  last  to  the  wonderful  art»  of  painting,  of 
which  he  did  not  disdain  to  be  called  a  follower. 

The  amiable  attitude  of  the  Medici  to  all  artists,  from 
the  elder  Cosimo  to  his  .most  effeminate  descendant,  and 
their  easy  intercourse  with  gifted  subjects,  afforded  a  fine 
quality  in  consummate  ambition.  They  laughed  together 
over  the  backslidings  of  Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  who  exclaimed 
penitently,  possibly  after  the  abduction  of  Spinetta  Buti, 
"  If  there  is  a  wretched  monk  in  Florence,  it  is  I ! " 

Benozzo  Gozzoli,  painting  in  the  Medici  Chapel  of  the 
Riccardi  Palace,  addressed  Piero  de'  Medici  at  the  Villa 
Careggi :  — 

My  dearest  Friend,  — I  informed  your  Magnificence  in  a 
previous  letter  that  I  am  in  need  of  fifty  florins,  and  begged 
you  to  advance  them  to  me,  for  now  is  the  time  to  buy  corn 
and  many  other  things  that  I  want,  whereby  I  shall  save,  and 
get  rid  of  a  load  of  care.  I  also  reminded  you  to  send  to  Venice 
for  some  ultramarine,  for  in  the  course  of  the  week  one  wall  will 
be  finished,  and  for  the  other  I  shall  need  ultramarine.  The 
brocades  and  other  things  can  then  be  finished,  as  well  as  the 
figures. 

Artist  and  patron  have  long  been  dust,  but  the  brocades 
stiff  with  gold,  and  the  ultramarine,  remain  to  us  in 
the  quaint  procession  of  the  Nativity  wending  their  way 
along  the  wall  of  the  chapel. 

These  men  are  so  near  the  Florence  Window  that  you 
may  extend  a  hand  to  them,  and  yet  centuries  divide  the 
living  from  the  dead. 


28  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 


CHAPTER  in. 

THE  SHRINE  OP  THE  FIVE  LAMPS. 

T^LORENCE  possesses  few  more  noble  memories  than 
■*•  those  readily  associated  with  the  Shrine  of  the  Five 
Lamps.  Savonarola  traversed  this  narrow  street  when  he 
quitted  the  monastery  of  San  Marco  to  preach  in  the 
Duomo.  These  precincts  have  echoed  to  the  footsteps  of 
Michelangelo,  Era  Bartolommeo,  Botticelli,  Lorenzo  di 
Credi,  or  Cronaca,  religious  fervor  kindled  in  the  soul  of 
each  by  the  eloquent  words  of  the  reformer. 

The  Tabernacle  contains  the  miraculous  picture  of  the 
Madonna  and  Child,  by  Andrea  Tafi.  The  mosaic  is  usu- 
ally concealed  by  a  white  curtain  drawn  across  the  surface, 
inside  of  the  sash  of  glass.  Precious  relic  of  shrines  of 
the  highway  and  town  thoroughfare,  the  Street  of  the 
Watermelon  would  lack  an  important  feature  if  robbed  of 
the  Tahernacolo  delle  Cinque  Lampade. 

These  shrines  become  every  year  more  rare.  Often 
painted  by  the  best  masters,  and  framed  in  marble,  carved 
with  much  care  and  elegance  of  design,  they  are  now 
chiefly  relegated  to  the  safe-keeping  of  museums,  when  not 
destroyed  by  the  elements. 

Our  wayside  shrine  endures,  with  the  mosaic  shrouded 
by  curtain  and  sash,  and  the  massive  lamps  swaying  on 
their  rusty  chains  beneath  the  projecting  arch  of  roof.  Is 
it  spared  the  improvements  of  modern  change  because  a 
pio^js  lady,  long  dead,  left  money  to  light  the  lamps  at 


THE  SHRINE   OF  THE  FIVE  LAMPS.  29 

evening,  when  a  tremulous  ray  from  the  brimming  oil  cups 
2s  shed  abroad  ? 

The  tales  of  Boccaccio  and  Sacchetti  have  been  inter- 
woven about  our  Tabernacle  in  the  past.  These  authors, 
as  accomplished  scholars  of  their  time,  may  no  longer 
invent  romances  to  amuse  the  ear  of  a  Queen  of  Naples, 
and  the  beautiful  Fiammetta,  yet  reality  and  fable  become 
strangely  blended  in  the  places  described  by  them.  It  is 
difficult  to  separate  the  characters  of  Boccaccio,  the  nar- 
rator, who  was  the  source  whence  Shakspeare  drew  "  AlPs 
Well  that  Ends  Well,"  Chaucer  his  "  Knight's  Tale,"  and 
Keats  his  "  Pot  of  Basil,"  from  the  living  personages  of 
the  day. 

Andrea  Tafi  certainly  existed,  a  sober  workman  rather 
than  a  brilliant  genius,  and  a  contemporary  of  Cimabue. 
Tafi  went  to  Venice,  where  the  Greeks  were  working  in  the 
Church  of  St.  Mark.  He  brought  back  with  him  to  Flor- 
ence the  Master  Apollonio,  who  taught  him  to  bake  the 
glass  cubes,  and  prepare  the  stucco,  with  such  result  as  the 
mosaics  of  the  Baptistery  dome,  with  powers,  thrones,  and 
dominions,  if  not  the  Byzantine  Christ  above. 

Andrea  Tafi  once  dwelt  in  the  house  still  adorned  by  the 
Shrine.  His  waggish  pupil,  Buffalmacco,  also  lived  there 
in  the  prime  of  his  roguish  boyhood.  The  little  palace 
beyond  was  built  by  Buontalenti.  Then  why  not  Master 
Simon  da  Villa,  doctor  of  physic,  who  returned  from  study- 
ing at  Bologna,  clad  in  scarlet  robes  and  ermine,  and  rented 
a  house  in  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon  ? 

The  learned  doctor  wished  to  learn  all  about  his  neigh- 
bors, and  especially  who  were  those  two  poor  but  merry 
souls,  the  painters  Buffalmacco,  and  his  comrade  of  the 
studio,  Bruno.  The  friends  in  mischief  played  countless 
pranks  on  Master  Simon  while  showing  him  the  town, 
obtaining  him  many  a  rating  from  his  wife  for  the  sorry 
plight  in  which  he  returned  from  these  excursions.    The 


30  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

good  man  showered  benefits  on  his  tormentors,  and  often 
invited  them  to  dine  or  sup  with  him.  Bruno  adorned 
the  mansion  with  frescos,  depicting  a  battle  of  cats  and 
rats  in  a  gallery,  and  placing  the  Agnus  Dei  above  a 
chamber  door. 

Our  Lady  of  September !  —  La  Donna  di  Settemhre  !  The 
curtain  is  drawn  aside  for  a  season  on  this  occasion,  and 
the  dark  Madonna  of  Andrea  Tafi  gazes  forth  on  the  Street 
of  the  Watermelon,  behind  the  screen  of  glass  window 
and  swaying  lamps,  sheltered  by  the  projecting  arch  of 
roof.  Flowers  in  a  china  vase  have  been  placed  on  the  ex- 
ternal ledge,  —  dahlias,  asters,  and  a  pale  rosebud  or  two. 

Languid  summer  heat,  blended  with  a  certain  richness 
of  deepening  autumn  tints,  lingers  about  the  town.  There 
is  a  mysterious  charm  in  the  unveiling  of  the  Shrine 
during  this  month.  The  Madonna  belongs  to  the  quaint 
miracle-pictures  of  the  land,  about  which  legends  gather 
from  some  dim  tradition  of  sanctity. 

On  the  Mediterranean  shore  boats  containing  the  fish- 
ermen and  their  families  have  been  gliding  over  the  calm 
sea  since  dawn  from  Via  Reggio  and  the  Bocca  d'Arno, 
in  the  direction  of  Leghorn,  to  join  the  throng  toiling  up 
the  height  of  Montenero  to  the  shrine  of  the  sister  Ma- 
donna of  the  dark  picture  there  treasured  in  the  church. 
This  year  no  cholera  cloud  menacing  the  coast  leads  to 
government  interference  with  crowds  gathering  about  this 
sanctuary  to  honor  our  Lady  of  September  with  feasting, 
noise,  and  revelry. 

Possibly  the  tabernacles  of  Mediterranean  seaports, 
beacons  of  home  to  the  sailors  on  return  voyages,  and 
associated  with  many  phases  of  panic  of  fear  in  time  of 
pestilence  or  public  calamity,  when  sought  and  borne  forth 
in  procession  to  allay  fear,  may  possess  more  interest  of 
picturesque  phases  in  a  simple  and  superstitious  people 
than  the  street  shrine. 


THE  SHRINE  OF  THE  FIVE  LAMPS.  81 

Andrea  Tafi's  work  remains  a  shadow  in  the  brightness 
of  noonday,  and  yet  the  spot  is  replete  with  souvenirs  of 
the  past,  of  which  the  present  cannot  rob  it. 

Town  and  thoroughfare  may  bask  in  the  full  radiance  of 
life,  but  with  the  shadows  of  evening  the  five  lamps  are 
lighted.  Burn  on,  little  twinkling  stars  of  flame,  gems 
in  the  surrounding  darkness !  Do  not  the  lives  of  those 
who  have  lived  their  day  in  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon 
form  the  true  mosaic,  —  bit  cemented  into  bit,  in  symmetri- 
cal pattern,  to  shine  in  imperishable  colors  for  all  time, 
and  enshrined  in  the  years  ? 

The  wayfarer  on  the  busy  and  crowded  highway  of  the 
world  may  still  pause  a  moment  in  thoughtful  contempla- 
tion of  the  shrine,  questioning  the  silent  thoroughfare, 
the  vast  cathedral  pile  beyond,  the  depths  of  his  own  soul. 
Watchman,  what  of  the  night  ? 


32  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CHURCH   TOWERS. 

'T^HE  mingled  voices  of  the  bells  float  in  the  casement 
-■■  at  all  hours.  Now  a  hurried  pulsation  of  brazen 
throats  announces  the  mysterious  passing  away  from  the 
crowded  thoroughfares  of  the  soul  claimed  by  death.  Now 
a  saint's  day  is  marked  by  the  peal  of  vibrating  belfries  at 
intervals,  from  daybreak  to  nightfall,  the  mere,  whirring 
clamor  of  noisy  clappers  intent  on  disturbing  the  tardy 
slumbers  of  irritable  nerves,  and  throbbing  on  the  weary 
brains  of  invalids.  "  Never  attempt  to  live  in  the  shadow 
of  an  Italian  campanile  unless  you  wish  to  be  driven  mad 
by  the  jangle  of  the  bells,"  warns  the  valetudinarian,  mind- 
ful of  disturbed  rest  at  the  Lakes,  Yarese,  near  a  Venetian 
campo  or  Florentine  piazza. 

Again  the  chimes  of  many  turrets  swing  slowly  back  to 
the  ebb  of  silence,  and  the  sweet  notes  mark  the  Ave  Maria 
of  dawn,  the  full  flood  of  noon,  and  the  vespers,  or  Nona, 
with  a  certain  solemnity  of  impressiveness.  All  joys  and 
all  calamities  have  been  recorded  for  the  Flower  City  by 
her  bells. 

The  page  of  history  will  ever  glow  afresh  in  the  minds 
of  new  generations,  the  valiant  Piero  Capponi  tearing  up 
the  treaty  before  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  French  king, 
Charles  VIII.,  with  the  presumably  scandalized  French 
army  looking  on,  and  the  memorable  defiance  of  the  note 
of  Gallic  trumpets  leading  to  an  attack  on  the  town. 
"And  we  will  ring  our  bells!" 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  33 

Truly  Florence  has  rung  her  bells  through  all  the  chang- 
ing years  ever  since,  and  has  stood  unconquered,  although 
the  outburst  of  genuine  indignation  on  the  part  of  the 
brave  Capponi  was  decided  to  be  the  reverse  of  diplomatic, 
even  by  the  chroniclers  of  his  own  time,  there  being  no 
precedent  in  history  for  his  blunt  speech  :  Voi  darete  nelle 
vostre  trombe,  e  noi  nelle  nostre  campane. 

To  dwell  for  a  season  within  range  of  the  sonorous  music 
leads  to  a  certain  sentiment  of  sympathy  with  the  modern 
Florentine,  who,  condemned  to  make  the  tour  of  the  world 
to  recruit  health,  expressed  regret  to  lose  sight  of  "our 
campanile  "  even  for  a  year.  Such  foster-children  as  the 
stranger  dwelling  within  her  gates  may  experience  similar 
attachment  to  the  gracious  city  of  the  Arno  bank,  and  all 
those  slender  towers  rising  through  the  silvery  mists  of 
the  early  morning  far  above  the  russet  tiles  of  crowded 
roofs  and  occasional  loggia. 

In  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon  tlie  mingled  tones 
of  the  bells  penetrate  the  window,  but  the  towers  remain 
invisible.  Possibly  the  absence  to  sight  renders  each  only 
the  more  suggestive  to  meditation.  One  may  ponder  (m 
their  history  by  the  hour,  if  so  disposed,  while  the  ear 
guides  thought  to  their  base. 

Giotto's  Campanile,  so  near  at  hand,  dominates  street 
and  window,  as  the  great  bell  booms  out  over  the  listening 
town.  Santa  Croce  takes  up  the  echo  in  a  higher  note,  after 
an  interval ;  then  San  Marco,  San  Lorenzo,  Santa  Maria 
Novella,  and  the  Church  of  Ognissanti  clash  in  unison,  with 
a  more  distant  tinkle  of  little  Santa  Lucia  on  the  Prato 
beyond,  while  across  the  river,  Santo  Spirito  and  the  Car- 
mine make  their  own  harmonies,  with  additional,  airy 
vibrations  from  San  Miniato.  When  these  great  giants 
pause  to  take  breath,  as  it  were,  a  whole  rhythm  of  minor 
notes  become  audible,  thin,  cracked,  and  rusty  perhaps, 
emanating  from  smaller  sanctuaries  as  the  rustle  of  springs 


84  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

and  brooks  in  the  woods  assert  their  own  existence  in  a 
subdued  murmur,  when  the  tempest  has  swept  the  forest 
trees  overhead,  and  rent  the  mountain-side.  Still  more 
charming  to  the  attentive  ear  is  the  fainter  echo  of  coun- 
try bells,  taking  up  the  challenge  of  the  hour  far  away 
among  the  purple  slopes  of  the  hills,  up  the  Casentino, 
on  the  Chianti  hills,  at  the  base  of  Monte  Morello,  or 
down  the  wide-spread  pianura  in  the  direction  of  Pisa 
and  the  sea. 

What  meaning  had  the  bells  of  Florence  to  the  soul  of 
Savonarola  in  moments  of  meditation? 


I.      THE  AVE  MARIA   OF  DAWN. 

Time  and  season  have  no  part  in  the  beauty,  grace,  and 
harmony  of  Giotto's  Campanile.  The  fairy  structure  be- 
longs to  the  day  and  to  the  night  alike,  and  remains 
untarnished  by  the  centuries,  the  wonder  of  the  sunrise  as 
well  as  of  the  sunset. 

When  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  beheld  this  marvel  of 
architectural  skill,  with  shrewd,  imperial  calculation  of  its 
having  cost  the  Florentine  republic  the  sum  of  eleven  thou- 
sand florins,  he  is  reputed  to  have  said  that  the  city 
should  keep  the  precious  object  of  art  in  a  wrapping,  and 
uncover  the  gleaming  marbles  at  intervals  of  several  years, 
when  the  event  would  attract  a  throng  of  strangers.  The 
citizens  did  not  adopt  the  royal  suggestion.  What  count- 
less multitudes  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe  have 
since  gazed  upon  the  tower!  The  exalted  of  the  earth, 
a  linked  chain  of  sovereigns,  wearing  the  crown  of  power 
more  or  less  uneasily,  have  paused  to  admire  this  shrine. 
From  the  powerful  Charles  V.,  weighing  the  cost  in  golden 
florins  to  free  citizens,  lavished  on  a  single  church  tower 
in  the  embellishment  of  their  city,  to  Queen  Victoria  wit- 
nessing the  spring  festival  of  lighting  the  car  of  Ceres  in 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  35 

the  Piazza  of  the  Duomo,  from  the  Bigallo,  a  few  seasons 
ago,  surrounded  by  minor  rulers,  such  as  Queen  Natalia  of 
Servia,  or  the  Emperor  of  Brazil,  with  German  and  Russian 
princes  attendant,  and  that  shadowy  old  couple,  the  King 
and  Queen  of  Wiirtemberg,  in  the  background  of  country 
seclusion  in  the  villa  at  Quarto,  a  gallery  of  historical  por- 
traits might  be  made. 

To  the  more  modest,  artistic  tourist,  red  guidebook  in 
hand,  this  revelation  of  the  beautiful  must  ever  be  the  way- 
side sacrament  of  Canon  Kingsley,  to  be  treasured  in 
remembrance  for  the  remainder  of  life,  —  sharing  the  rev- 
eries of  the  pipe  in  some  tranquil  German  town  ;  gleaming 
swiftly  in  a  displaced  photograph  on  the  table  during  the 
long  winter  night  of  Scandinavia  ;  checking  for  a  moment 
the  rapid  current  of  western  life,  as  if  a  spray  of  Dante's 
purple-black  lilies  were  held  across  the  path  of  the  Ameri- 
can in  guise  of  magician's  wand. 

"Giotto's  Campanile  at  Florence!  Do  you  recollect 
comparing  the  softly  blended  colors  to  the  plumage  on 
a  dove's  breast  on  that  September  morning  when  we  first 
saw  it  together  ?  That  must  have  been  twenty  years 
ago,  and  you  were  a  bride,"  muses  Contentment  in  the 
domestic  circle. 

"Giotto's  Campanile  at  Florence!  Who  sought  this 
water-color  drawing  in  the  depths  of  the  locked  port- 
folio ?  Yes ;  there  it  stands,  with  all  the  saints  and 
angels  in  their  niches,  quite  unchanged.  I  should  shrink 
from  revisiting  the  spot.  He  was  with  me  then,  and 
now  I  am  alone,"  meditates  Sorrow,  white-featured  and 
withered. 

Youth  exclaims,  "Ah,  when  may  I  travel  in  the  va- 
cation, and  visit  Italy,  pausing  to  look  at  Giotto's 
Campanile  ?  " 

The  human  tide  flows  on  to  other  lands,  and  even  the 
Florentine  who  has  emerged  from  the  Baptistery  opposite 


36  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

in  the  swaddling-clothes  of  infancy,  anointed  with  all 
suitable  rites  of  religion,  crosses  the  square  as  a  stripling, 
is  speedily  a  man,  and  becomes  old,  gray,  infirm;  yet 
Giotto's  Tower  stands  unchanged.  Is  it  imperishable  ? 
Will  it  endure,  bathed  by  winter  rains,  dried  by  the  puri- 
fying if  piercing  tramontana  wind,  keen  from  the  heights 
of  Apennine,  steeped  in  summer  sunshine  long  after  we 
also  are  dust  ? 

One  may  quit  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon  at  any  hour, 
and  skirting  the  corner  of  the  Cathedral,  where  the  pub- 
lic carriages  gather  with  their  bags  of  hay  and  litter  of 
straw,  while  the  pigeons  of  the  roof  alight  on  the  pave- 
ment, come  upon  the  campanile,  polished  to  the  lustre  of 
precious  marbles  in  the  storm,  flushed  with  the  rosy  glow 
of  the  departing  sun,  shedding  shafts  of  golden  splendor 
down  adjacent  streets,  glorified  by  the  radiance  of  noon 
in  manifold  tints  of  skilful  mosaic  of  stones,  transfigured 
by  silvery  beams  of  the  moon  to  a  fabric,  temple,  or  tomb 
of  snow.  Still  another  phase  of  contemplation  is  in  store 
for  the  wanderer.  In  languid  weather,  when  clouds  are 
tawny,  the  Arno  a  brimming,  yellow  flood,  and  the  squares 
clammy  with  moisture,  the  hot,  scirocco  wind  renders  the 
human  countenance  sallow,  and  stains  with  mildew  blight 
palaces  and  churches,  then  the  campanile  soars  heaven- 
ward unstained  by  the  blight  of  a  universal  murkiness, 
becomes  a  shaft  of  pearl  against  the  relief  of  pervading 
gray  tones,  disclosing  at  the  same  time  the  fine  lines  of 
minute  workmanship,  resembling  the  famous  niello  work 
of  the  ancient  craft  of  the  town :  the  column  seems  then 
to  be  engraved. 

Is  there  not  an  element  of  cruelty,  even  of  mockery,  in 
the  unchangeable  loveliness  of  the  belfry,  while  mortal 
woes  break  in  futile  ripples  of  grief  and  passion  at  the 
base?  You  cannot  wring  tears  of  sympathy  from  stone. 
The  gust  of  weeping  past,  there  is  consolation  to  be  de- 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  37 

rived  from  the  serene  harmony,  the  enduring  strength  of 
the  campanile.  Perhaps  brave  Giotto  put  his  own  soul 
into  the  design.  Did  he  dream  of  this  glorious  fulfilment 
still  adorning  the  town  in  our  day,  when  he  paced  the 
Street  of  the  Watermelon  ?  The  shepherd  boy  discovered 
on  the  country-side  drawing  one  of  his  own  sheep  on  a 
rock  with  a  bit  of  slate,  by  that  earliest  patron  of  art, 
Cimabue,  had  grown  to  such  achievement  as  the  adorn- 
ment of  Assisi  and  Padua,  and  neared  his  end.  If  he 
walked  through  our  street,  absorbed  in  thought  of  the 
project  still  in  store  for  his  energies,  he  must  have  also 
skirted  the  angle  of  the  Cathedral,  passed  before  the  main 
door,  and  reached  the  site  of  his  own  tower.  Visible  to 
his  mind,  in  completion,  the  shaft  was  scarcely  the  broken 
rainbow  of  a  dissolving  storm-cloud  to  the  town,  and  yet 
confidence  in  his  ability  to  erect  a  campanile  worthy  of 
the  Arno  capital  was  so  universal  a  sentiment  with  the 
community  that  he  was  given  the  commission. 

The  July  day  is  hot  ;  and  the  sun's  rays  beat  on  the 
roofs  like  molten  fire.  Viewed  from  the  olive-clad  heights 
of  the  surrounding  hills,  the  town  possesses  no  beauty  of 
atmosphere  in  such  a  season,  and,  the  earlier  mists  of  heat 
rolled  back  down  the  Val  d'Arno  to  hang  over  Prato  and 
adjacent  villages  like  a  stifling  white  curtain,  Florence 
stands  withered  and  gray  of  aspect,  with  Fiesole,  and  the 
more  remote  slopes  of  arid  and  ashy  hues.  The  winds 
are  at  rest,  only  the  scorching  scirocco  and  boisterous 
liheceio  sweep  up  from  the  Mediterranean,  or  the  still 
more  irritating  Adriatic  currents  blow  over  the  easterly 
ridges  of  intervening  Apennine.  Within  the  gates  of  the 
town  cool  nooks  may  be  found.  To  linger  in  the  embra- 
sure of  the  Florence  Window,  inhaling  the  fragrance  of 
the  flowers,  is  to  realize  that  summer  is  the  bountiful, 
beautiful  presence  of  a  goddess,  with  flowing  mantle  of 
many  shades  of  green,  and  tunic  white,  as  the  old  masters 


38  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

liked  to  depict  her  in  frescos.  How  the  populace  ex- 
pands  and  revels  in  the  heat,  emerging  from  dark  streets 
and  crooked  stairways  to  warm  fingers  recently  empurpled 
by  cruel  chilblains  and  winter  frost  in  a  blander  tempera- 
ture !  Languor  may  result  in  the  autumn,  but  the  suffer- 
ing of  physical  discomfort  belongs  to  winter. 

The  signora  who  dwells  in  the  shadow  of  the  Shrine  of 
the  Five  Lamps  departs  from  her  dark  and  narrow  abode, 
attired  in  cream-colored  tissues,  and  with  gold  embroi- 
deries on  her  bonnet.  She  is  a  fine  type  of  matron,  with 
abundant  black  tresses,  but  she  does  not  move  the  admira- 
tion of  the  street  in  the  least  by  her  sumptuous  apparel, 
which  should  belong  to  the  carriage  rather  than  to  the 
curbstone.  She  is  well  known  to  deserve  the  reproach  of 
past  centuries  on  the  Florentine  women,  and  spend  all  the 
money  of  her  harassed  spouse  on  her  back.  The  street  is 
a  little  world,  and  praises,  ridicules,  and  satirizes  the  resi- 
dents with  unsparing  severity,  as  gossip  circulates  from  the 
cook  of  the  marchese  to  the  groom  of  the  foreign  baron,  and 
eddies  about  the  shop  of  the  vegetable-woman  in  the  prattle 
of  laundresses,  nurses,  and  maids,  whose  feminine  tongues 
have  been  compared  to  the  vibrations  of  the  aspen  leaf. 
The  city  is  a  little  world,  scrutinized  under  the  micro- 
scope of  envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness,  where 
trifling  events  become  momentous,  and  far  too  much  heed 
is  given  to  unsparing  criticism  of  one's  neighbor,  in  con- 
trast with  those  vast  capitals  where  the  seas  of  human 
life  flow  in  great,  successive  waves,  each  obliterating 
the  sand  ripple  of  a  predecessor. 

The  signora  spreads  her  creamy  draperies  like  a  gigan- 
tic butterfly,  and  marshalling  her  little  brood  of  children, 
as  smart  as  ribbons,  feathers,  broad  hats,  and  tiny  boots 
can  make  their  nimble  little  bodies,  with  maids  in  attend- 
ance, and  a  halia,  carrying  the  baby,  enveloped  in  white 
lace  and  embroideries,  sallies  forth  to  the  piazza. 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  39 

The  vegetable-woman,  pausing  on  the  threshold  of  her 
shop,  shakes  her  head ;  and  the  laundress,  who  is  chaffer- 
ing over  a  cabbage,  purses  up  her  lips,  nods,  and  then 
whispers  in  the  ear  of  her  companion  some  slander 
such  as  slowly  soaks  into  the  mind  of  the  recipient 
like  water  in  marshy  land,  according  to  Confucius. 

The  dame  goes  forth,  unscathed  by  scandal,  and  will 
pause  in  the  torrid  rays  of  the  sun  to  greet  a  friend,  un- 
mindful to  shelter  her  head  with  a  parasol,  or  having 
forgotten  the  useful  article,  the  chances  are  she  will  es- 
cape sunstroke ;  yet  it  also  happens  that  you  subsequently 
hear  of  her  as  stricken  with  fever,  and  jumping  from  a 
window  into  the  well  of  the  court  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  to 
the  desolation  of  her  afflicted  husband,  and  the  bereave- 
ment of  all  who  knew  her. 

The  old  cabman  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  cracks  the 
whip  he  carries  in  his  right  hand,  as  he  returns  to  his 
stand  on  the  Piazza  of  San  Marco,  where  his  horse,  a 
patient  white  animal,  with  meek  nose  in  a  bag  of  hay, 
awaits  the  custom  ever  more  rare  since  the  establishment 
of  tramways.  Tramways  an  established  fact,  what  fate 
will  befall  the  society  of  cabmen,  who  parade  in  political 
processions  on  occasion,  with  a  dark  steed  —  such  as  they 
never  drive  —  rampant  on  a  banner  of  green  silk  ?  If  the 
tailors  are  to  "  build  "  the  dresses  of  the  ladies  here  in 
Italy  in  obedience  to  the  feminine  aspiration  of  the  day 
to  be  as  masculine  as  possible,  what  is  to  become  of  such 
pale  and  anxious  little  sarte  as  the  maker  of  the  signora's 
yellow  robe,  bravely  supporting  a  worthy  husband  out  of 
employment  through  the  failure  of  a  flour  mill  at  Pistoja  ? 
In  turn,  the  flour  mill  was  too  heavily  taxed  for  the  owner 
to  meet  his  expenses.  If  the  type-writer  is  to  set  forth 
clearly  and  cleanly  the  ideas  of  a  time-pressed  world  on 
rapidly  multiplying  sheets,  how  may  bread  be  obtained 
by  the  clerks  carefully  trained  to  excel  in  writing  and 


40  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

copying,  with  beautiful  penmanship  ?  Truly,  this  is  a 
photographic  age  of  swift  and  sharp  impressions  and 
speedy  accomplishment. 

These  questions  intrude  even  on  the  drowsy  tranquillity 
of  an  old  street  at  Florence,  induced  by  the  presence  of 
the  rubicund  cabman,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  jolly,  and  crack- 
ing his  wbip,  his  visage  somewhat  too  suggestive  of  the 
purple  glow  resulting  from  a  liberal  use  of  Tuscan  wine. 
As  the  husband  of  the  vegetable-woman,  and  deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  business,  he  rejoices  in  the  nickname  of  the 
ortolano  (vegetable-dealer)  bestowed  upon  him  with  the 
facility  of  Italian  towns.  What  befalls  the  displaced 
forces  of  human  labor,  swept  aside  by  new  inventions  ? 
One  hears  no  more  of  them.  The  vetturino  of  the  Riviera 
vowed  vengeance  on  the  railway,  piercing  the  tunnels  of 
the  shore,  from  the  heights  of  the  defrauded  Cornice  road ; 
still  the  iron  rail  endures,  and  the  class  of  vetturini  is 
nearly  extinct.  The  indignant  Venetian  gondolier e  car- 
ried their  wrath  at  the  introduction  of  little  omnibus 
steam-craft  into  the  city  to  the  verge  of  a  strike  in  the 
presence  of  the  Queen  Margherita,  yet  the  vaporetti  puff 
and  shriek  along  the  canals,  and  the  picturesque  wielder 
of  the  oar  must  go  to  the  wall  sooner  or  later.  Care  may 
lurk  in  the  corner  of  the  eye  of  the  bluff  cocker,  for  the 
venture,  from  a  financial  standpoint,  of  a  vegetable  shop 
is  fraught  with  sundry  anxieties.  If  the  outlay  in  rent 
and  commodities  be  trifling,  he  doubtless  wishes  that  the 
account  of  the  superb  signora,  who  has  just  sallied  forth, 
was  less  lengthy  for  daily  salad  and  vegetables,  selected 
by  a  slatternly  maid,  and  carried  home  in  her  apron, 
while  he  fears  to  cut  off  supplies  altogether,  lest  he  is 
never  paid.  For  the  rest,  he  anathematizes  the  encroach- 
ing tramway  in  the  most  ingenious  vocabulary  of  abuse 
possible  to  the  lower  classes  of  any  city ;  but  at  least  on 
this  July  day  let  us  laugh  and  be  merry,  whip  in  hand, 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  41 

while  the  patient  white  horse  stands  at  the  corner,  await- 
ing a  tardy  customer. 

Were  the  daily  interests  of  the  streets  less  petty  and 
trivial  formerly,  when  Andrea  Tafi  rose  so  early  to  work 
on  his  mosaics,  which  were  destined  to  sparkle  like  gems 
in  dim  church  domes  ?  An  old  priest,  wearing  a  broad 
beaver  hat,  totters  past  the  window,  and  pauses  to  greet 
the  antiquarian,  in  the  act  of  locking  his  door.  A  small 
country  wagon  jogs  along,  drawn  by  a  shaggy  pony,  and 
driven  by  a  brown  young  man,  with  his  bride  at  his  side. 
The  bride,  with  her  fair  hair  adjusted  on  the  top  of  her 
head,  and  wearing  a  gown  of  purple  woollen  stufp,  with  a 
mustard-yellow  jacket,  —  for  cotton  fabrics  do  not  belong 
to  the  attire  of  rural  damsels  of  condition,  —  gazes  about 
her  with  bright,  astonished  eyes,  as  she  wields  a  huge  red 
fan.  In  another  moment  she  will  have  turned  the  corner, 
and  Giotto's  Campanile  will  dawn  on  her  intelligence. 
She  may  glance  at  the  structure  with  awe ;  only  the  fash- 
ionable costumes  of  the  ladies  and  the  shop-windows  will 
prove  far  more  attractive.  How  many  generations  of 
country  brides  have  looked  at  the  campanile,  as  their 
rustic  equipages  rattled  through  the  city,  since  the  July 
day  when  the  painter,  sculptor,  mosaic  designer,  and 
architect  in  one  began  the  task! 

In  Dante's  childhood  each  quarter  of  the  city  was  a 
little  sphere  absorbed  in  its  own  interests  of  life  and 
death  and  circumscribed  daily  routine.  No  doubt  the 
neighbors  across  the  way  commented  on  the  attire  of 
Dante's  mother,  — the  woman  who  foreshadowed  the  great- 
ness of  her  son  in  the  imaginative  quality  of  her  own 
dreams.  Time  was  when  the  Via  del  Cocomero  possessed 
loftier  elements  than  our  modern  paltry  strife,  the  spirit- 
ual conflicts  of  Savonarola  and  his  followers  apart,  and 
the  donations  of  noble  ladies  Ricasoli,  to  found  monas- 
teries in  the  country  and  other  charitable  institutions. 


42  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  Cavaliere  Niccolo  del  Gianfigliazzi,  a  descendant 
of  Count  Gangalandi,  and  member  of  one  of  the  five 
families  enjoying  certain  privileges  accorded  by  the  Mar- 
chese  Ugo,  founded  the  convent  of  San  Niccolo,  long 
obliterated,  on  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon.  The  cir- 
cumstances are  rich  in  suggestiveness  of  the  age.  The 
Cavaliere  Niccol6,  finding  it  necessary  to  go  to  Avignon  to 
inherit  property  belonging  to  his  father  in  the  French 
town,  and  wishing,  like  a  prudent  man,  to  arrange  his 
affairs  at  Florence  first,  made  a  testament  with  the  pro- 
vision that  if  his  infant  Giovanni,  born  of  the  lady  Maria 
Ghita  di  Messer  Alamanno  degli  Adimari,  died,  he  sub- 
stituted Jesus  Christ  as  his  heir,  and  would  build  a 
monastery  for  women  of  the  order  of  the  Frati  Minori 
(Franciscans)  with  his  wealth.  Whether  the  infant  son 
Giovanni  died  or  lived,  the  foundations  of  the  building 
were  begun  in  1331,  and  the  Bishop  of  Florence,  Francesco 
da  Cingoli,  blessed  the  first  stone  on  the  25th  of  February, 
1340,  accompanying  the  ceremony  with  an  indulgence  of 
forty  days.  The  family  continued  to  bestow  benefits  on 
the  monastery  and  church. 

The  bell  of  San  Niccolo  no  longer  joins  the  vesper  notes 
of  the  city  towers,  but  the  excitement  of  religious  revival 
under  Savonarola  invaded  these  sacred  precincts.  When 
the  Duomo  was  thronged  by  the  populace  to  listen  to  the 
famous  Lenten  sermons  of  the  reformer,  the  women  with- 
drew to  the  neighboring  sanctuary  of  San  Niccolo  to  gather 
up  the  crumbs  of  a  tamer  discourse.  In  addition,  those 
subsequent  tumults,  when  the  clash  of  arms  became  audi- 
ble, used  in  self-defence  by  the  Piagnoni  against  the  insult- 
ing throngs  of  their  enemies,  occurred  on  this  spot. 

Our  Cavaliere  Niccolo,  of  pious  memory,  appears  to 
have  dwelt  at  Avignon,  under  Pope  Clement  Y.,  and  his 
descendants  to  have  followed  the  fortunes  of  the  Roman 
court  in  the  gay  and  luxurious  Provencal  city.     The  con- 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  48 

vent  flourished  through  the  centuries,  whether  from  the 
generosity  of  the  exiles  at  Avignon  in  legacies,  or  as 
patronized  by  certain  Florentine  families.  The  ancient 
records  assure  us  that  on  the  6th  of  December  the  fSte  of 
Saint  Nicholas  was  celebrated  with  much  pomp,  and  on  the 
Vigilia  ("  Eve  ")  the  music  performed  by  the  religious 
procession  was  so  excellent  that  "our  most  erudite  old 
people  "  affirm  they  never  heard  better  on  a  similar  occa- 
sion. Does  not  the  Italian  celebration  correspond  with 
the  Santa  Klaus  tide  of  Holland  ? 

On  the  Ist  of  November,  1661,  the  Archduke  Ferdinand 
of  Austria,  with  his  wife  Anna  de'  Medici,  came  to  the 
Street  of  the  Watermelon  to  hold  at  baptism  in  the  Church 
of  San  Niccolo  the  infant  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  North- 
umberland, Count  of  Berwick  and  Leicester,  and  Donna 
Maddalena,  Duchess  of  Aquitaine.  The  Grand-duke  Ferdi- 
nand 11. ,  with  the  Grand-duchess  Vittoria,  and  all  the 
nobility  of  the  Florentine  court,  assisted  at  the-  ceremony. 
The  august  child  received  the  name  of  Carlotta  Luisa. 
The  chronicle  of  the  July  day  so  memorable  in  our  quarter 
is  quaint :  — 

*'  Great  was  the  wonder,  the  fame  of  which  spread  through 
the  world,  when  it  was  known  that  in  Tuscany  alone  there  were 
four  towers,  one  in  the  water,  the  second  in  the  air,  the  third  on 
the  earth,  and  the  fourth  always  inclining  yet  never  falling. 
These  were  the  Marzocco  of  Leghorn,  founded  in  the  sea  of 
Pisa  ;  the  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  at  Florence,  which,  sup- 
ported by  corbels,  springs  from  the  roof,  and  appears  to  be 
poised  in  mid  air;  the  third,  the  itaarvel  of  all,  the  tower  of 
Santa  Maria  del  Fiore,  more  wonderful  than  the  rest,  whether 
considered  for  its  height,  the  loveliness  of  its  marbles,  the  variety 
of  its  statues,  and  the  multitude  of  the  histories  sculptured  on 
the  bassi-rilievi  of  the  four  sides  ;  and  the  fourth,  the  Campanile 
of  Pisa,  which  leans  six  braccia  and  a  half  from  the  perpendicu- 
lar, yet  stands  through  the  centuries." 


44  THE  LILY  OF  THE  AENO. 

When  Giotto  was  ordered  in  1334,  by  the  Republic,  to 
construct  an  edifice,  using  the  highest  intelligence  of 
which  he  was  capable,  the  stipulation  was  that  for  mag- 
nificence, both  in  altitude  and  the  quality  of  the  work,  it 
should  surpass  any  labor  of  the  sort  ever  undertaken,  even 
by  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans  at  the  period  of  their  most 
florid  power.  In  conformity  with  this  noble  plan,  Giotto, 
as  a  dutiful  son  of  the  Church,  had  the  first  stone  of  the 
campanile  blessed  on  the  25th  of  January. 

The  perfume  of  roses  lingers  about  the  barred  casement. 
Did  roses  bloom  as  luxuriantly  on  that  memorable  25th  of 
July  so  long  ago  ?  Did  the  matron  of  the  period,  envel- 
oped in  her  mantle,  sally  forth  to  enjoy  the  show,  like 
our  handsome  signora  in  the  yellow  robe,  on  similar 
occasions  ? 

The  familiar  scene  comes  back,  with  the  scent  of 
flowers,  and  the  scorching  heat  of  the  July  sun.  Giotto 
formed  a  procession  of  the  clergy,  and  of  all  the  Ordini 
Regolari^  in  the  Piazza  of  San  Giovanni,  the  gonfaloniere 
of  Justice  Maso  Valori,  with  the  priors  and  magistrates. 
The  Bishop  Francesco  Salvestri  da  Cingoli  blessed  the 
foundation-stone  in  the  presence  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Pisa,  who,  having  fled  from  his  diocese,  was  dwelling 
with  his  monks  in  Santa  Maria  Novella  ;  and  together 
with  the  stone  were  cast  in  some  medals  of  gold  of 
one-pound  weight  each,  with  the  imprint  of  the  campanile 
as  it  now  stands  on  one  side,  and  the  arms  on  the  other 
of  the  Lily  and  the  Cross,  with  the  encircling  letters: 
"Deo  Liberatori  Florentina  Civitas,  magnificentissime 
propriis  sumptibus  fieri  curavit."  Then  Giotto  laid  his 
foundations  twenty  braccia  deep,  with  strong  stone  under- 
lying, to  resist  the  corroding  action  of  water  and  possible 
frost;  and  left  to  the  care  of  others,  in  due  course  of 
time  the  fair  temple  rose  to  a  height  of  one  hundred  and 
forty-four  braccia  of  many  tinted  intarsiatura  of  colored 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  45 

marbles  of  delicately  wrought  symbols,  niches,  and  man- 
dorle  up  to  the  parapet,  and  such  fulfilment  of  design  as 
the  seven  bells  belonging  to  a  metropolitan  church  capable 
of  ringing  together  in  harmony  in  the  consonance  of  the 
octave,  the  fifth,  or  a  third  part.  The  great  bell  was 
fused  in  1475,  and  weighed  eleven  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  seventy-five  pounds,  and  was  inscribed  with  the  arms 
of  the  Arte  della  Lana,  and  was  christened,  "Madonna 
plena  di  Grazie."  The  mellow  tones  of  its  voice  were 
audible  at  a  distance  of  eight  or  ten  miles. 

Who  that  has  ever  heard  the  Duomo  bell  of  to-day, 
welling  up  from  the  depths  of  the  town  to  Fiesole  or  Bel- 
losguardo,  or  borne  far  up  the  Casentino  by  the  summer 
breeze,  can  fail  to  feel  a  personal  thrill  of  the  nearness 
of  the  calamity  which  befell  the  Madonna  full  of  grace  on 
the  25th  of  December,  1T04  ?  The  item  of  the  Diario 
della  Magliabecchiana  has  the  startling  brevity  of  a 
modern  telegram :  "  This  morning  Girolamo  Lippi,  bell- 
ringer  of  the  Duomo,  in  sounding  the  Ave  Maria  of  Dawn, 
ascertained  that  the  great  bell  was  broken,  and  sagging  on 
one  side,  and  therefore  from  that  hour  rang  no  more. " 

In  October,  1705,  a  new  bell  was  cast,  weighing  fifteen 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  sixty  pounds,  fused  by  the 
brave  Cosimo  Cenni,  according  to  some  authorities,  or  by 
Petri,  and  terminated  by  the  foundryman  Brafocolini,  as 
maintained  by  others.  The  Ceremoniere  Marini  blessed 
the  furnace.  On  the  12th  of  December,  the  new  bell  was 
hung,  —  the  Ave  Maria  of  the  Dawn ! 

At  four  o'clock  of  the  July  morning  in  the  year  1890, 
the  portals  of  the  Duomo  were  opened  as  usual  to  all 
pious  citizens  disposed  to  repeat  a  prayer  at  this  early 
hour,  and  the  notes  of  the  great  bell  pealed  out  over  the 
sleeping  town.  Giotto  and  his  successor,  Taddeo  Gaddi, 
sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  no  awakening;  but  the  cam- 
panile once  more  emerged  from  the  shadows  of  night  to 


46  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

greet  another  day.  From  base  to  parapet  the  light  grew, 
at  first  wan  and  cold,  then  warming  as  herald  of  the 
approaching  sun,  until  each  lunette,  statue,  and  bas-relief 
were  fully  revealed,  and  the  whole  pile  was  once  more 
prepared  to  tell  its  sculptured  story  of  the  Creation,  the 
Sciences,  the  Arts,  and  Virtues. 

A  young  soldier,  exhausted  by  fatigue  and  fever,  and 
dust-stained,  crept  into  the  town  with  the  break  of  day. 
A  Florentine,  he  had  come  on  leave  from  his  garrison  in 
the  district  of  Emilia,  and  had  walked  all  night.  The 
voice  of  the  great  bell  reached  his  failing  ear,  and  the 
angels  of  celestial  harmonies,  of  divine  compassion,  de- 
scended from  the  campanile,  and  led  the  boy  by  the  hand 
through  the  still,  deserted  thoroughfares  to  the  Duomo 
door.  He  entered  the  vast,  cool  temple,  cast  off  his 
shoes  and  his  hat,  and  sank  down  on  a  bench.  Then 
an  affrighted  custodian  summoned  the  Misericordia,  and 
the  black-robed  brethren  issued  forth  from  the  door  of 
their  sanctuary  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  piazza^  and 
bore  the  unconscious  soldier  away  to  the  hospital.  And 
still  the  bells  rang  out  with  a  full,  pulsing  utterance  of 
joy  in  the  Ave  Maria  of  Dawn,  breathing  forth  peace  and 
pity  in  the  summer  day. 

n.    THE  MASQUERADE  OP  THE  WINDa 

The  east  wind  of  November  brings  the  note  of  Santa 
Croce's  bell  to  the  listening  ear.  Follow  the  Piazza  of 
the  Duomo  to  the  Via  Proconsolo,  and  thence  gain,  by 
the  Piazza  San  Firenze  and  the  Borgo  dei  Greci,  the 
Square  of  Santa  Croce.  The  spot  is  gray,  dusty,  and 
deserted,  and  the  east  wind  holds  full  sway,  sweeping 
down  the  Arno  valley  from  the  heights  of  Vallombrosa, 
and  the  Falterona,  with  sombre  masses  of  cloud  gathering 
above  the  roof  of  the  great  church  at  the  lower  extremity 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  47 

of  the  enclosed  space.  Dante  stands  in  a  musing,  if  com- 
manding, attitude  in  the  centre  of  the  piazza^  supported 
by  shield-bearing  lions  and  the  arms  of  diverse  Italian 
cities.  This  monument  is  the  tardy  reparation  of  recog- 
nition of  the  poet's  native  city,  after  the  lapse  of  some 
six  hundred  years.  The  majestic  figure  on  the  pedestal 
is  a  fit  guardian  of  the  temple  yonder,  tomb  of  so  many 
illustrious  dead ;  yet  Dante  seems  to  be  pondering  scorn- 
fully and  sadly  on  the  futility  of  human  aspirations.  The 
marble  lips  breathe  low :  — 

"  Naught  but  a  gust  of  wind  is  worldly  fame, 
Now  from  this  quarter,  now  from  that  arriving, 
And  bearing  with  each  change  a  different  name." 

The  stone  benches  of  the  square  are  untenanted  in  the 
bitter  weather,  where  women  gossip  together  on  summer 
evenings  while  the  children  play,  or  old  men,  wrapped  in 
cloaks,  warm  shrivelled  limbs  in  the  warmth  of  noon  on 
clear  days  of  winter.  These  stone  seats  have  replaced  the 
wooden  ones  built  here  to  witness  the  game  of  calcio,  for- 
merly played  by  bands  of  youth,  unarmed,  with  a  ball. 
On  such  a  day  the  old  houses,  built  by  the  Strozzi,  Pitti, 
Spini,  Uguccione,  and  Bartolini,  still  decorated  with 
faded  frescos,  or  boasting  heavy  wrought  ironwork  about 
portal,  balcony,  and  casement,  and  massive  stone  carv- 
ings, have  a  mute  and  untenanted  appearance.  The  tall 
brown  Campanile  of  Santa  Croce  seems  to  gaze  down  on 
the  square  over  the  shoulder  of  the  fresh  marbles  of  the 
facade.  The  tower  is  more  in  harmony  with  the  church 
and  adjacent  buildings  than  is  the  startling  whiteness  of 
the  modern  work,  completed  by  the  munificence  of  an 
Englishman.  Many  storms  have  beaten  on  the  belfry  since 
the  foundation  of  the  sacred  edifice ;  wind,  lightning,  and 
the  crash  of  hail  have  spent  their  combined  violence  of 
winter  and  summer  tempests  on  the   structure  on   more 


48  THE  LILY   OF  THE  ARNO. 

than   one   occasion,    damaging   column  and  masonry,    or 
bringing  the  whole  toppling  down  in  hopeless  ruin. 

A  new  campanile  was  raised  in  1544,  at  the  cost  of 
two  thousand  florins,  and  the  bells  christened  respec- 
tively Vittoria,  Maria,  and  Romola.  Maestro  Zanobi  di 
Ragno  di  Lapo  was  the  foundryman,  according  to  the 
archives  of  church  and  monastery.  In  1549,  another 
belfry  is  mentioned,  while  restorations  were  further  ef- 
fected in  connection  with  the  completed  fa9ade. 

Deserted,  gray,  and  dusty,  the  square  is  not  suggestive 
of  the  scenes  so  rich  in  historical  incident  which  have 
taken  place  here  in  bygone  years.  The  east  wind,  bring- 
ing clouds  of  dust,  or  the  merest  ghostly  vibration  of 
ancient  bells,  recalls  that  on  such  a  December  day,  in  the 
season  of  the  Nativity,  pilgrim  monks  preached  here  a 
sermon  to  attentive  throngs  of  listeners.  From  the  now 
spectral  band  of  such  preachers  San  Bernardino  of  Siena, 
of  ascetic  mien,  gazes  at  us  for  a  moment  from  the 
shadow  of  his  cowl,  as  he  elevates  the  emblem,  the  mono- 
gram of  Christ,  once  carried  by  him  over  the  land  to  heal 
the  strife  of  wars,  and  revive  the  sorrowful,  —  his  a  gift 
of  eloquence  from  childhood  scarcely  less  than  that  of 
Savonarola  in  his  time. 

From  the  now  ghostly  crowd  of  hearers,  moved  by  pas- 
sionate appeal  and  fervent  zeal  on  the  part  of  the  Nativ- 
ity preachers,  as  a  field  of  grain  ripe  for  the  harvest 
ripples  before  the  breeze,  stirred  at  least  by  a  surface 
emotion,  Simone  di  Corso  Donati,  of  handsome  presence, 
as  the  historians  affirm  {hello  di  persone),  head  of  the  fac- 
tion of  the  Neri,  seated  immovable  on  his  horse,  sur- 
rounded by  his  followers,  listens  to  the  Christmas  words 
of  peace  uttered  by  the  monk,  as  in  the  year  1301.  How 
vivid  the  scene  in  this  dreary  place,  with  Dante  watch- 
ing on  his  pedestal !  — the  brilliant  cavalier,  pausing  with 
curbed  steed,  secretly  brooding  on  matters  of  political  van- 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  49 

geance,  the  crowd  admiring  him,  and  the  preacher  waxing 
demonstrative  in  his  hackneyed,  monastic  declamation  of 
the  day,  the  hour  of  the  birth  of  Christ  on  earth.  Lol 
Niccolo  de'  Cerchi,  of  the  Bianchi,  uncle  of  Simone,  and 
sworn  foe,  appeared  at  a  remote  angle,  and  crossed  the 
'piazza^  intent  on  his  own  affairs,  and  in  a  moment  all 
was  changed.  Hatred  kindled  in  hearts ;  anger  maddened 
brains;  swords  leaped  from  their  scabbards;  partisans 
surged  from  side  to  side,  rallying  about  their  chiefs,  like 
the  rising  waves  of  a  troubled  sea,  as  storms,  with  swift 
lightning-strokes,  have  fallen  on  the  campanile,  and  shat- 
tered it.  The  record  of  history  is  brief;  the  uncle  was 
killed  in  the  hasty  conflict,  and  the  vain  youth  died  of 
the  wounds  received  in  the  fray  on  the  following  day. 

These  reminiscences  are  only  a  gust  of  the  mournful 
east  wind  wailing  around  the  tower  of  Santa  Croce.  Gone 
is  the  shadowy  brotherhood  of  Christmas  preachers  on  the 
spot.  The  great  chiefs  of  factions,  Niccolo  di  Cerchi  and 
Simone  di  Corso  Donati,  once  full  of  pride,  power,  and 
strength,  are  a  mere  pinch  of  dust,  and  might  form  parti- 
cles of  the  cloud  now  eddying  about  the  feet  of  the  marble 
Dante,  their  very  feuds  wellnigh  forgotten  by  the  world 
The  gray  clouds  visible  on  the  horizon  beyond  Yallombrosa 
promise  the  wrath  of  approaching  winter.  Early  snow  has 
fallen  on  the  Maritime  Alps  above  Nice,  and  all  the  slopes 
of  Apennine,  the  marshes  of  Udine,  are  frozen,  and  abun- 
dant ice  chills  Apulia  and  the  extreme  south  of  the  penin- 
sula. Now  may  the  eight  winds  reputed  to  blow  on 
Florence  be  promised  full  sway,  causing  the  human  harp 
to  vibrate  beneath  the  successive  gusts.  A  servant  opens 
a  casement  in  the  mansion  covered  with  frescos,  and 
shakes  a  silken  table-cloth,  leaving  it  to  flutter  in  the  air. 
The  hanging  of  gorgeous  tints,  blended  with  all  the  skill 
of  modern  upholstery  in  imitation  of  mediaeval  colors  and 
design,  changes  the  aspect  of  the  silent  square.     As  long 


60  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

as  the  strip  of  embroidered  stuff  hangs  suspended  from  the 
window  of  the  palazzo^  the  piazza  becomes  reanimated 
with  a  former  splendor,  is  once  more  a  volume  of  history 
imequalled  for  variety  of  pageantry,  —  now  a  concourse  of 
citizens  meeting  to  take  measures  for  opposing  Castruccio 
Castracane,  lord  of  Lucca ;  now  a  sumptuous  spectacle  of 
the  powers,  given  by  the  Duke  of  Athens ;  again  joust  and 
tournament  of  the  Medici  princes.  Centuries  form  the 
chapters  of  such  a  volume,  and  the  years  are  the  pages. ' 
The  wind  lifts  the  corner  of  the  drapery,  with  glint  of 
gold  thread  in  the  woven  tissue  of  plush,  and  arabesque 
border  of  animals  at  strife,  amid  garlands  of  olive-tinted 
leaves ;  and  once  more  the  spot  is  animated  with  the  popu- 
lace to  witness  the  spectacle  of  the  buffalo  race,  held  in 
honor  of  Gonzaga  of  Mantua  and  Eleanora  de'  Medici  in 
1584.  The  court  chronicle  of  the  day  announced  the 
festival  in  these  terms :  — 

'*  The  following  Sunday  took  place  a  beautiful  and  very  rich 
buffalo  race,  comprising  eight  buffalo,  each  tricked  out  with  dif- 
ferent trappings." 

We  are  further  advised  that  these  animals  issued  forth 
from  the  stalls  of  his  Highness  in  suitable  order  of  pro- 
cession, two  and  two,  with  their  attendants.  The  docile 
beasts  paced  along  our  Via  del  Cocomero  (Street  of  the 
Watermelon),  followed  the  contrada  which  leads  to  Santa 
Maria  Maggiore,  slowly  proceeding  to  San  Pier  Maggiore, 
past  the  Stinche  (prisons)  and  thence  to  the  Piazza  Santa 
Croce,  where  an  immense  multitude  of  the  populace,  im- 
patiently awaiting  their  arrival,  had  gathered  for  hours. 
Every  window  of  these  silent  old  mansions  was  crowded 
with  animated  faces ;  men  clustered  on  the  roofs,  clinging 
to  the  very  chimneys ;  the  balconies,  richly  adorned,  were 
filled  with  the  dames  who  delighted  to  display  their  own 
charms  on  such  occasions ;  while  the  seats  in  the  square 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  51 

below  were  filled,  so  that  the  number  of  spectators  was 
estimated  at  fifty  thousand. 

Yonder  empty  balcony,  with  the  rusty  iron  railing  and 
the  arid  piazza^  where  the  dust  whirls  around  Dante  on 
his  pedestal,  furnish  a  keynote  of  national  character.  At 
any  time  the  balcony,  like  a  similar  projection  of  Venice, 
Verona,  or  Naples,  may  be  freighted  with  beauty,  spar- 
kling with  smiles,  and  decked  with  gems  and  lace  to 
witness  the  transportation  of  Rossini's  ashes  from  Paris 
to  Santa  Croce,  or  national  anniversary.  At  any  time 
the  masses  of  peasantry  from  the  adjacent  country  and 
Florentine  citizens  will  gather  in  a  sea  of  humanity  to 
await  the  unveiling  of  a  statue  in  the  presence  of  royalty, 
as  they  once  flocked  to  hear  Savonarola's  Lenten  ser- 
mons, or  to  delight  in  the  celebration  of  the  Festa  of  Saint 
John. 

The  advent  of  the  buffalo  afforded  a  truly  noble  sight, 
although  it  might  have  inspired  a  grain  of  fear  in  the 
breast  of  the  prudent  to  behold  the  heavily  weighted 
benches  and  balconies  and  the  house-tops,  in  dread  of 
some  calamity  to  mar  the  general  gayety.  The  objects  of 
such  general  interest  entered  the  enclosure  by  a  door  in 
the  palisade.  Were  they  own  brothers  of  the  buffalo  still 
to  be  seen  on  the  Campagna,  and  in  the  Pontine  Marshes  ? 
Were  they  of  the  flock  that  yielded  the  milk  requisite  to 
make  the  small  cheese  served  daily  to  Pope  Pius  II.,  of 
epicurean  taste  ?  Three  or  four  times  did  the  shaggy 
beasts  trot  around  the  arena,  with  a  "marvellous  and 
beautiful  effect."  Attendant  masqueraders  amused  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  windows  by  tossing  artificial 
eggs,  filled  with  perfumed  waters,  then  led  the  way  in  the 
direction  of  the  bridge  of  the  Rubaconte  (Ponte  alle  Grazie) 
as  a  signal  that  the  race  was  about  to  begin.  The  trum- 
pets sounded  for  the  starting;  and  the  buffalo,  goaded 
by  blows,  and  all  the  ingenuity  of  torment  inherent  in 


52  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Southern  races,  departed  for  the  goal,  the  Palio  decked 
with  red  damask,  where  fires  were  kindled  to  addition- 
ally excite  the  animals.  The  buffalo  of  the  Grand-duke 
won. 

The  contest  of  speed  of  the  buffaloes  over,  the  revellers 
returned  to  the  sport  of  throwing  the  eggs  of  perfumed 
water.  Then  a  company  of  gay  cavaliers  broke  lances 
until  the  close  of  night.  Later  the  maskers  sought  the 
house  of  Pier  Antonio  de'  Bardi,  at  the  Canto  agli  Albert!, 
whence  issued  a  car  crowded  with  men  and  boys  singing 
a  madrigal,  composed  by  Giovanni  Battista  Strozzi,  and 
set  to  music  by  the  host.  The  car  went  about  the  town, 
followed  by  many  people,  and  escorted  by  torch-bearers, 
the  flames  displaying  the  gorgeous  costumes  of  the  singers, 
whose  spirits  did  not  flag  until  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

Surely  the  wail  of  the  wind  and  the  tinkling  vibration 
of  the  bells  bring  some  faint  echo  of  the  madrigal  linger- 
ing in  the  streets  of  the  old  city,  even  at  this  hour,  — 
a  strain  caught  up  by  the  smith,  bending  to  his  task  in 
a  dark  byway,  hummed  by  the  brisk  apprentice  of  the 
mosaic-worker,  and  trolled  forth  in  full,  sweet  cadence  by 
the  operatives  of  the  San  Frediano  quarter  on  warm  nights, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  guitar  and  fairy  mandolin.  Now 
the  strip  of  silk  fluttering  in  the  casement  is  caught  by 
conflicting  currents,  wrenched  from  the  fastenings,  and 
blown  far  out  into  the  square.  All  the  winds  appear  to 
contend  for  the  trophy  in  rough  sport.  Tramontana  lifts 
the  bullion  fringe,  while  Libeccio  tugs  at  the  opposite  cor- 
ner; Scirocco  sends  the  drapery  up  into  the  air  billow- 
ing out  like  a  balloon,  tawny-orange,  puce- colored,  violet, 
emerald,  and  steely-blue,  while  Greco  and  Levante  suc- 
cessively bring  it  in  undulating  ripples  of  folds  down  to 
the  ground,  where  it  lies  in  a  variegated  heap,  conquered 
by  Mistrale,  Ponente,  and  Mezzogiorno. 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  63 

Yes,  the  winds  hold  full  sway  on  the  spot,  now  making 
their  own  riot  of  play,  race,  and  tournament.  Did 
Florentine  wit  jest  concerning  the  gusts  sweeping  about 
the  Campanile  of  Santa  Croce,  in  which  his  Satanic 
Majesty  played  a  part  ?  Had  Arlotto,  the  merry  priest, 
no  quirk  for  this  locality,  —  he  who  promised  the  populace 
to  make  it  rain,  if  any  two  people  could  agree  as  to  the 
time  ?  The  legend  still  lingers,  in  gusty  March  weather, 
of  how  the  Wind  and  the  Devil  kept  a  rendezvous  in  the 
Piazza  of  the  Duomo  once  upon  a  time,  and  the  latter  gave 
the  former  the  slip  by  entering  the  church,  wherefore 
Boreas  yet  awaits  outside  the  return  of  the  nimble  ad- 
versary of  mankind.  The  prudent  pedestrian  may  still 
avail  himself  of  certain  thoroughfares  laid  out  in  wind- 
ing curves  to  avoid  the  sharp  cold  of  winter  winds ;  but  in 
the  open  spaces  the  elements  hold  their  own.  Listen  to 
the-  stroke  of  Santa  Croce's  bells !  In  the  year  1608 
Cosimo  de'  Medici,  son  of  Ferdinand  I.,  sat  over  yonder, 
beside  his  bride  Maria  Maddalena,  daughter  of  Duke 
Charles  of  Austria,  to  witness  the  spectacle  in  this  fitting 
place,  of  the  Masquerade  of  the  Winds. 

Does  the  world  change  in  marked  degree  with  the  lapse 
of  years  ?  How  much  indebted  to  those  earlier  spectacles 
of  the  old  Florentine  Piazza  of  Santa  Croce  are  modern, 
municipal  pageants  ?  —  the  carnival  rout  of  the  Riviera 
towns,  flowery  chariots  of  the  seasons,  with  their  emblems 
of  snow,  ice,  and  autumn  ;  Viennese  historical  caval- 
cades, or  Lord  Mayor' s  show  of  the  colonies  grouped  to- 
gether,—  New  Zealand  with  her  goats'  fleeces,  Australia, 
decked  with  golden  grain  and  grapes,  Malta,  in  black 
draperies,  emblazoned  with  her  cross,  India,  enveloped  in 
jewelled  tissues,  the  Cape  Colony,  wreathed  with  ostrich 
plumes,  and  carrying  the  Cape  lily.  The  bell  sends  forth 
a  quivering  note,  and  our  bit  of  drapery  lying  on  the 
ground  expands,  clothes  the  whole  space  with  fluttering 


54  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

banners,  tapestries,  damask,  and  brocade  depending  from 
balcony  and  embrasure. 

The  populace  surged  toward  this  centre ;  as  usual,  the 
scaffoldings  built  for  spectators  were  filled  with  humanity ; 
the  windows  and  balconies  were  occupied  by  eager  and 
smiling  participants  of  the  revelry.  Such  fanciful  de- 
signs as  a  small  palace  built  of  shells,  and  a  painted 
mountain  of  rock,  occupied  remote  angles  of  the  square. 

Don  Antonio  de'  Medici,  as  master  of  ceremonies,  gave 
the  signal  for  the  festivities  to  commence.  Eolus,  as 
King  of  the  Winds,  appeared  in  the  east.  He  wore  a 
crown  aitd  a  purple  mantle,  and  rode  a  large  horse.  He 
was  preceded  by  twelve  valets  in  the  garb  of  sailors,  as 
the  first  scholars  in  the  craft  of  navigation  by  means  of 
sails,  twelve  Tritons  of  fantastic  humor,  and  eight  sirens, 
four  of  whom,  dressed  in  black,  scattered  the  destructive 
elements  of  hail,  tempest,  and  ice  around  them.  Then 
came  King  Eolus  surrounded  by  mounted  cavaliers  and 
courtiers.  Behind  him  appeared  the  car  of  Ocean,  drawn 
by  two  whales,  and  decked  with  corals  and  shells.  The 
escort  of  Neptune  were  the  charming  n3rmphs  of  the  sea, 
rivers,  and  springs.  Deiopeia,  queen  of  Eolus,  followed 
in  state.  Perpetual  variety  was  afforded  to  the  fSte  by 
the  king's  approaching  the  painted  mountain  or  the  pal- 
ace of  shells,  and  touching  them  with  his  sceptre,  when 
fresh  groups  would  issue  forth  to  increase  the  diversions 
of  the  sunny  hours,  headed  by  blithe  Zephyr,  playing  on 
the  violin.  And  thus  with  feasting,  laughter,  and  the 
breaking  of  lances,  night  ensued.  Sprightly  Zephyr  may 
still  haunt  the  spot  with  the  thin,  piercing  melody  of  his 
instrument.  A  servant  hastens  out  of  the  door  of  the  old 
palazzo  with  the  frescos,  and  gathers  up  the  bit  of  silk 
drapery  swept  away  by  the  wind.  The  keynote  of  sug- 
gestive color  is  quenched  by  the  closing  of  a  massive 
portal.     The  bells  hang  mute  in  the  church  tower.     King 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  66 

Bolus  has  again  retreated  eastward  beyond  the  horizon  of 
sombre,  gray  clouds  over  Vallombrosa.  Dante  reigns 
alone  in  the  deserted  square,  musing :  — 

"  Naught  but  a  gust  of  wind  is  worldly  fame, 
Now  from  this  quarter,  now  from  that  arriving, 
And  bearing  with  each  change  a  different  name." 

III.     A   JEWEL-BOX. 

On  the  10th  of  August  Florence  celebrates  the  Festa  of 
San  Lorenzo,  and  according  to  custom  the  weather  should 
be  excessively  hot.  "  As  hot  as  the  day  of  San  Lorenzo, " 
is  a  saying  generally  accepted,  the  sun's  rays  possibly 
suggesting  the  glowing  coals  and  gridiron  of  the  noble 
youth's  martyrdom.  Seasons  may  vary  south  of  the  Alps, 
and  in  Tuscany  one  summer  is  no  guide  for  another. 
Why  should  the  breeze  be  cool,  with  a  hint  of  hail  recently 
fallen  on  the  heights,  in  its  breath  that  enters  the  Flor- 
ence  Window,  rendering  agreeable  at  any  hour  of  the  day 
a  ramble  across  the  Via  dei  Pucci  to  the  Via  Cavour,  in 
response  to  the  invitation  of  San  Lorenzo's  bells  ? 

The  Riccardi  Palace  is  magnificent  in  stately  propor- 
tions of  massive  stone,  barred  casement,  and  great  iron 
rings  to  hold  the  torches  and  standards  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
in  the  light  of  the  summer  morning.  Venders  of  small 
wares,  brooms,  lamps,  bird-cages,  occupy  the  stone  bench 
flanking  the  spacious  structure.  There  is  an  unwonted 
crowd,  moving  of  vehicles,  and  perceptible  hum  of  voices 
in  all  of  the  streets  leading  to  the  Piazza  of  San  Lorenzo ; 
and  still  the  bell  clangs  out  above  other  sounds. 

We  are  reminded  that  it  is  the  festival  of  the  shops 
selling  pasta  ;  and  each  is  made  as  attractive  in  decoration 
of  green  garlands,  tinsel  ornaments,  and  little  flags  as 
the  skill  and  pecuniary  resources  of  the  shop-keeper  can 
render  them.     In  the  midst  the  pa^ta  is  temptingly  dis- 


56  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

played,  the  hard  red  grain  of  wheat  crushed,  prepared, 
and  manipulated  into  manifold  shapes  by  generations  of 
workers  at  Naples,  Genoa,  or  Bologna.  Here  the  long 
and  apparently  brittle  pipes  of  macaroni  are  built  into 
gigantic  pyramids  of  interlacing  sticks  in  a  window, 
flanked  by  the  short,  tough  stems  known  as  padre  nostre  ; 
there  the  more  delicate  white  nastrini  ("  ribbons  "),  vermi- 
celli^ and  capellini,  —  the  latter  as  finely  spun  as  hairs,  — 
are  arranged  in  nests  and  festoons  on  a  shelf,  while  heaps 
of  tiny  golden  grains,  occhi  ("eyes"),  and  transparent 
crescents  or  stars  for  soup  are  piled  in  bags  around  the 
entire  interior.  The  Italian  gourmet  will  not  fail  to  note 
the  capelli  ("hats  "),  the  small  disks  of  paste  to  be  filled 
with  minced  fowl  or  veal,  like  liliputian  patties  gently 
stewed  in  broth,  and  served  with  some  subtile  flavor  of 
nutmeg,  in  one  of  the  Case  gastronomiche  of  the  Via  Porta 
Rossa,  which  are  ever  redolent  of  ham  and  sausage. 
Great  wheels  of  golden  Milan  butter,  the  flask  of  oil,  and 
the  odorous  Parmesan  cheese  at  hand  must  additionally 
tempt  a  people  of  a  largely  farinaceous  diet  like  the  Flor- 
entines, in  such  a  display.  In  the  Borgo  San  Lorenzo 
rises  a  temple  of  pasta  of  fair  and  accurate  architectural 
proportions,  the  proprietor  of  the  shop  beaming  in  an 
obscure  perspective  of  triumphal  arches,  between  columns 
of  twisted  vermicelli^  and  with  a  cupola  roof  of  solid  paste 
overhead. 

Why  is  macaroni  dedicated  to  Saint  Lawrence  by  ancient 
Florence  ?  Is  a  larger  quantity  of  the  nutritious  article 
of  food  consumed  by  the  town  on  this  day  than  on  any 
other  in  the  calendar  of  the  year  ?  Was  the  first  Italian 
who  strung  the  threads  in  festoons  to  dry  in  the  air  chris- 
tened Lorenzo  ?  Nobody  pauses  to  answer,  and  the  bells 
clang  on,  chanting  their  own  refrain  of  higher  thoughts 
than  mere  aliment  for  the  perishing  body  of  man.  The 
young  Medici  soldier,  Giovanni  delle  Bande  Nere,  in  mar- 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  07 

ble,  adorns  the  corner  of  the  narrow  piazza.  The  portals 
of  the  church  are  hung  with  rich  draperies  of  red  damask 
in  honor  of  ih.Qfesta.  The  throng  presses  into  the  sanc- 
tuary in  waves  of  humanity ;  a  glimmer  of  stars  of  tapers 
on  distant  altars  is  visible  above  the  heads  of  the  people ; 
the  voices  of  priests  and  acolytes  are  audible  from  time 
to  time ;  and  heavy  clouds  of  incense  float  on  the  air. 

An  unlovely  spot  the  Piazza  San  Lorenzo,  even  on  the 
day  of  the  festa :  the  lofty  houses  flanking  the  contracted 
space  on  either  side  are  dingy,  weather-beaten,  and  faded ; 
the  margin  of  cellar  shops  of  ready-made  clothing,  um- 
brellas, and  old  furniture  are  sordid  and  mean.  Even  the 
church  is  not  impressive  from  this  point  of  view,  with  the 
rough,  unfinished  facade.  Founded  in  390,  and  conse- 
crated by  Saint  Ambrose  in  393,  it  is  one  of  the  most  an- 
cient churches  in  Italy.  Destroyed  by  fire  in  1423,  it  was 
rebuilt  by  the  Medici  in  the  late  Romanesque  style,  from 
designs  of  Brunellesco,  and  completed  by  Michelangelo, 
in  the  beautiful  Laurentian  library,  the  new  sacristy,  and 
even  with  the  design  of  adorning  the  still  nude  facade. 
Like  those  unadorned  exteriors  of  the  mansions  of  opulent 
merchants  in  Eastern  cities,  with  tessellated  courts  and 
gardens,  and  sumptuous  chambers  within,  never  was  more 
humble  gateway  to  the  treasures  of  art  here  collected  than 
the  door  of  the  Church  of  San  Lorenzo  on  the  square. 
Place  aux  dames  ! 

The  listener  may  discern  the  note  of  two  women's  lives 
in  the  cadence  of  the  bells  ringing  in  the  lofty  campanile. 
Far  back  in  the  dim  past  of  the  fourth  century  a  pious 
matron  vowed  to  build  here  the  primitive  church,  like 
Hannah  of  Biblical  fame,  if  Heaven  would  grant  her  a 
son,  to  be  christened  Lorenzo.  The  wish  fulfilled,  the 
sanctuary  was  blessed  by  Saint  Ambrose.  The  Electress- 
Palatine  Anna  Maria  Louisa  de'  Medici,  sister  of  the  last 
Grand-duke  of  the  line,  Gian  Gastone,  built  the  campa- 


58  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

nile,  as  completing  triumphantly  the  work  destined  to 
preserve  the  fame  and  magnificence  of  her  race. 

Follow  the  street  along  the  side  of  the  piazza^  past  the 
shops  of  battered  and  greasy  furniture,  to  the  base  of  the 
tower.  In  the  rear  alone,  the  vastness  and  grandeur  of 
proportion  of  clustering  dome,  spire,  roofs,  and  cornices 
of  the  entire  structure  become  visible.  At  an  angle  of  the 
wall  the  campanile  rises,  dark,  lofty,  and  symmetrical,  — 
the  belfry  built  by  a  woman.  The  fabric  is  not  incrusted 
with  precious  marbles,  having  the  rosy  reflections  of  cer- 
tain sea-shells,  nor  guarded  by  the  statues  of  saints  and 
prophets  in  myriad  niches,  nor  fretted  with  airy  casement, 
like  Giotto's  Tower,  but  has  rather  the  plain  aspect  of 
having  been  constructed  to  hold  bells  in  fitting  equilib- 
rium, and  resist  storms.  Erected  by  a  Medici  princess, 
the  Campanile  of  San  Lorenzo  should  have  been  wrought 
of  Florentine  mosaic.  If  the  memory  of  the  pious  matron 
of  the  fourth  century  lingers  about  the  entrance  of  the 
temple  on  the  piazza,  the  campanile  is  more  emblematic 
of  worldly  ambition  and  the  pride  of  life  than  of  reli- 
gious rite.  The  pious  matron  hovers,  a  pale  shade,  on 
the  threshold  of  the  church.  The  electress-palatine  is  a 
gorgeous  personage  just  emerged  from  the  frame  of  one 
of  those  portraits  of  the  Palatinate,  whether  in  the 
museum  of  Heidelberg  Castle,  or  in  the  corridors  of  the 
Uffizi  galleries,  — a  full-blown  flower  of  redundant  femi- 
nine charms,  bearing  a  certain  resemblance  to  other  noble 
dames  of  the  period  in  the  matter  of  laced  bodices,  velvet 
and  ermine  mantles,  brocaded  robes,  arms  bara  to  the 
elbow  ruffle,  powdered  hair,  rounded  chins,  and  full  red 
lips. 

The  foundations  of  the  tower  were  laid  in  June,  1740, 
and  the  first  block  blessed  by  the  Prior  Francesco  Mancini, 
assisted  by  a  body  of  the  canons  and  the  clergy.  This 
block  consisted  of  a  marble  coffer  containing  many  relics 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  69 

of  saints,  medals  of  Saint  Anna,  and  a  medallion  of  the 
electress-palatine,  surrounded  by  the  words,  "Deo  et 
omnia. "  Completed  on  the  24th  of  July  of  the  following 
year,  the  five  bells  were  hung  on  high,  and  rang  for  the 
first  time  on  the  Festa  of  Saint  Anna,  in  honor  of  the 
noble  donor,  namesake  of  the  saint. 

Doubtless  all  the  Annas  in  Florence,  young  and  old, 
rejoiced  on  the  occasion,  as  the  Maries  of  France  beam 
over  their  bouquets  of  the  Assumption.  The  Festa  of  Saint 
Anna  acquired  a  deep  significance  in  the  capital  of  the 
Yaldarno,  in  1343,  as  the  anniversary  of  the  banishment 
from  her  walls  of  the  odious  tyrant,  the  Duke  of  Athens, 
and  celebrated  as  such  in  the  Church  of  Or  San  Michele, 
when  the  gonfaloniere  of  the  arts  or  guilds  met  around 
the  statues  in  the  niches  dedicated  to  their  respective 
crafts. 

The  bells  of  the  ancient  Campanile  of  San  Lorenzo,  cast 
in  1215,  had  been  four  in  number,  and  the  bronze  of  these 
was  melted,  with  much  additional  metal,  to  fuse  the  new 
ones.  The  work  was  done  by  Signore  Moreni,  in  the 
lower  fortress,  commended  as  an  excellent  foundryman. 
The  first  bell  was  christened  Saint  John  Baptist,  the  sec- 
ond Saint  Joseph,  the  third  Saint  Lawrence,  the  fourth 
Saint  Ambrose  and  Saint  Zenobius,  the  fifth  Cosimo  and 
Damien. 

"  For  the  glory  of  my  race !  *'  The  proud  electress- 
palatine  seems  to  speak  thus  through  the  blended  voices 
of  the  bells.  Her  draperies  of  velvet  and  brocade  rustle, 
the  strings  of  pearls  looped  through  her  powdered  tresses 
gleam,  and  she  points  with  the  sceptre  held  in  her  taper 
fingers  to  the  low  doorway  in  the  rear :  "  Enter !  " 

The  metallic  vibration  of  the  bells  is  imperious  and 
commanding.  You  do  not  attempt  to  rebel  at  the  Medici 
fiat,  and  obey,  passing  the  old  custodian  who  is  seated  at  a 
desk  in  the  vestibule  to  sell  tickets  of  admission,  as  if  the 


I 


60  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

sacristy  were  a  theatre,  and  speedily  finding  yourself  in 
the  Chapel  of  the  Princes.  "  A  barren  and  unimpressive 
edifice  is  it,  this  Basilica  of  San  Lorenzo  ?  Look  about  at 
your  ease,  and  ask  pardon  of  the  august  dead  for  such  an 
error. "  The  voice  of  the  electress,  sonorous  and  majestic, 
speaks  ever  through  the  medium  of  the  bells  in  the  adja- 
cent campanile.  The  chapel  is  silent  and  cold,  even  on 
this  summer  day.  The  noisy  crowd  circulating  in  the 
church,  piazza^  and  about  the  shops  seems  far  away ;  the 
bells  drop  from  their  high  clamor  to  sudden  stillness  of 
calm. 

Foreign  tourists  do  not  abound  in  August;  and  a  de- 
jected cicerone  wearies  finally  of  imparting  to  inattentive 
ears  a  more  than  twice-told  tale  of  the  wealth  of  these 
tombs,  the  unearthing  of  stern  Cosimo  L,  with  his  auburn 
beard  unharmed,  and  sad  Eleanora  of  Toledo,  still  recog- 
nizable by  her  long  yellow  hair  fastened  with  gold  cords, 
and  departs.  You  are  alone  in  one  of  the  most  magnifi- 
cent mausoleums  in  the  world.  The  Medici  have  stretched 
forth  the  iron  hand  clad  in  the  silken  glove,  and  claimed 
you,  modest  stranger  of  the  nineteenth  century.  A  won- 
derful family,  keen,  prudent,  wicked,  and  liberal,  expand- 
ing from  the  vigorous  root  of  the  sagacious  old  citizen 
Cosimo,  Pater  Patriae,  flowering  in  full  splendor  of  power 
with  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  and  the  Grand-duke  Cosimo 
I.,  and  fading,  with  a  few  fresh  offshoots,  to  deserved 
extinction  with  the  foolish  and  vicious  youth  who  re- 
sembled only  too  much  the  spoiled  children  of  the  rich 
man's  nursery. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  figures  of  these  last  branches 
of  the  family  tree  was  the  Grand-duke  Ferdinand  I.  ;  and 
to  him  posterity  owes  this  jewel-box  of  a  chapel.  Fourth 
son  of  Duke  Cosimo  L,  and  educated  as  a  cardinal,  he 
succeeded  his  brother  Francesco  I. ,  bringing  with  him  the 
artistic  culture  of  the  Roman  court.     Ferdinand  rides  his 


I 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  61 

bronze  charger  in  the  Piazza  Annunziata,  modelled  by 
Giovanni  da  Bologna,  as  King  Victor  Emanuele  curbs  his 
steed  in  the  Piazza  of  the  Old  Market  still  surrounded  by 
the  picturesque  towers,  huddling  roofs,  and  loggie,  des- 
tined to  be  swept  away  by  new  Italy,  giving  place  to  Paris 
shop  and  glass-covered  galleria,  like  Milan.  The  back- 
ground of  association  of  Duke  Ferdinand  is  more  harmo- 
nious in  the  Flower  City,  and  mellow  sunshine  falls  on  the 
columns  of  the  Church  of  the  Annunziata,  lingers  on  the 
medallions  of  Luca  della  Robbia  above  the  great  Hospital 
of  the  Innocents  on  the  left  hand  of  the  statue,  and  deepens 
the  shade  about  the  massive  entrance  of  the  bishop's  pal- 
ace on  the  right  hand.  "  For  the  glory  of  my  race ! " 
proclaims  Duke  Ferdinand,  extending  his  sceptre  over 
the  city.  He  further  embellished  Florence  by  bringing 
the  Yenus  de'  Medici,  the  family  of  Niobe,  the  wrestlers, 
and  the  knife-grinder  from  the  Villa  Medici  at  Rome. 
Nor  did  his  ambition  cease  with  these  acquisitions.  He 
made  a  law  that  on  all  mountains,  shores,  and  valleys  of 
Tuscany  any  person  of  whatever  condition  who  appropri- 
ated transparent  amethyst,  jasper,  or  chalcedony  should 
be  compelled  to  pay  a  fine  of  fifty  scudi,  and  serve  at  the 
galleys  for  a  term  of  ten  years.  These  prohibitions  de- 
fined with  especial  severity  the  Podesteria  of  Barga,  the 
Vicariats  of  Scarperia,  Firenzuola,  and  Palazzuola,  with 
the  Commissariato  of  Volterra. 

What  pictures  the  princely  sentence  brings  before  the 
mind !  The  little  city  of  Barga,  built  in  the  Middle  Ages 
up  among  the  enfolding  hills  of  the  Garfagnana  region, 
defying  all  invading  armies  with  her  gates  closed,  whose 
sons  go  forth  to  sell  plaster  images  to  distant  lands,  grind 
organs,  and  engage  in  other  crafts  to  gather  the  frugal 
competence  that  will  enable  them  to  return  to  their  own 
vineyards,  olives,  and  chestnut  woods  in  old  age,  recurs 
to  memory  with  a  party  of  English  tourists  from  the  Baths 


62  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

of  Lucca,  climbing  the  path  in  summer  weather,  mounted 
on  donkeys. 

Scarperia,  in  the  Mugello,  on  the  slopes  of  the  Apen- 
nines, has  still  the  industry  of  making  the  native  cutlery 
which  has  flourished  here  since  the  fourteenth  century. 
The  pocket-knife  wielded  in  Sardinia,  the  Maremma,  and 
Modena,  as  well  as  in  Florence,  is  far  too  cheap,  conven- 
ient, and  durable  for  the  quarrels  of  a  hot-blooded  race. 
The  lady  glancing  over  the  terrace  wall  of  her  villa  in  the 
suburbs,  and  gathering  her  little  brood  of  children  more 
closely  about  her,  refrains  from  reproving  the  band  of 
audacious  boys  from  the  slums  of  the  town  stealing  figs 
on  the  slopes  below. 

Mere  urchins  that  they  are,  she  fears  they  already  carry 
knives.  Ah,  Scarperia  of  ugly  fame,  why  does  your  cut- 
lery not  cost  more  dearly,  and  a  saving  of  human  life 
result ! 

In  connection  with  the  fiat  of  the  Grand-duke  Ferdinand, 
the  image  of  the  typical  old  lady  traveller  of  this  genera- 
tion, whether  English,  Scotch,  Irish,  or  American,  again 
haunts  the  scenes  of  her  unscrupulous  depredations.  On 
the  Capitoline  and  Aventine  hills  alike,  and  in  bath  or 
catacomb,  she  steals  the  bits  of  gleaming  stones  in  the 
mosaic  pavements  of  the  Caesars,  under  the  very  nose  of 
the  most  vigilant  guards.  Polished  by  Roman  lapida- 
ries, these  trophies  furnish  the  paper-weights  and  even 
tables  which  form  her  souvenirs  of  travel.  Conscientious 
in  other  matters  of  the  Christian  code,  the  old  lady  in- 
variably revels  in  the  excitement  incident  to  her  nefarious 
proceedings,  and  stows  away  morsels  of  alabaster  of  his- 
torical value  in  her  pocket,  slips  cubes  of  verde-antico  up 
her  sleeve,  and  has  been  known  to  hug  a  fragment  of  red 
jasper  under  her  left  arm,  concealed  by  the  folds  of  a 
shawl.  "I  collected  them  all  myself,"  she  chuckles,  gaz- 
ing complacently  at  her  shining  hoard,  and  betraying  no 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  63 

more  remorse  on  her  benevolent  and  ingenuous  counte- 
nance than  the  female  smuggler  is  supposed  to  experience 
on  similar  occasions.  Even  the  penalty  imposed  by  the 
Medici  prince  of  serving  ten  years  at  the  galleys,  and  the 
risk  of  paying  the  fifty  scudi  fine  in  addition,  would 
scarcely  deter  the  old  lady  from  doing  a  little  pilfering  at 
Pompeii,   or  in  the  Forum. 

As  a  familiar  result  of  the  law  one  sees,  behind  the  pro- 
tecting crystal  of  the  museum  case,  the  statuette  of  James 
the  Disciple,  with  hands  and  feet  of  Yolterra  jasper  and 
flowing  garments  of  the  white  jasper  of  Caselli,  and  the 
red  and  green  of  Sicily ;  or  Matthew,  with  his  right  hand 
raised  while  his  left  holds  an  open  gilt  book,  the  face  and 
extremities  wrought  of  the  white  marble  of  Porto  Santo, 
his  vestments  of  amethyst  and  lapis-lazuli ;  or  Saint  Peter, 
carrying  tiny  keys,  his  mantle  made  of  the  yellow  jasper 
of  Sicily,  his  tunic  of  amethyst,  and  his  head  and  hands 
of  Volterra  chalcedony. 

The  Medici  appreciated  the  beauty  of  the  intarsia 
designs  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  the  grandeur  of  the 
Siennese  school  from  Duccio  and  Matteo  di  Giovanni  da 
Siena  to  Beccafumi  as  the  inventors  of  tarsia  a  chiaros- 
curo, the  use  of  marbles  to  give  shade,  relief,  and  concav- 
ity. The  art  of  working  in  pietra-dura  was  Lombard,  the 
Badia  of  Pavia  being  an  ornate  example ;  and  the  Duke 
Francesco  I.  had  already  engaged  the  services  of  Giovanni 
Bianchi  of  Milan.  Ferdinand  I.  added  Matteo  Nigetti, 
Andrea  Mariotti,  Daniello  Flosch,  and  many  others. 
Pictures  and  sacred  history  wrought  in  gems  resulted,  the 
miniature  productions  of  the  jeweller,  curious  rather  than 
attractive,  and  remote,  indeed,  in  the  scale  of  art  from 
Beccafumi 's  pavement  of  the  Siena  Cathedral.  The 
mosaic  works  established  in  the  Casino  of  San  Marco  were 
removed  in  1588  to  the  Uffizi,  and  thence,  on  the  sup- 
Dression  of  the  convent  of  San  Niccol6,  to  the  Street  of  the 


64  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 

Watermelon  (Via  del  Cocomero),  where  the  craft  was  fol- 
lowed for  a  time. 

The  bells  have  ceased  to  ring,  and  you  are  alone  in  the 
Chapel  of  the  Princes.  The  chronicle  of  Settimanni  is  a 
more  agreeable  companion  than  the  dejected  cicerone, 
whose  very  voice  has  a  threadbare  sound. 

*'  On  the  6th  of  August,  1604,  the  Serenissimo  Grand-duke 
Ferdinand  I.  chose  a  spot  near  the  Church  of  San  Lorenzo 
whereon  to  build  a  sumptuous  chapel,  and  came  with  all  his 
court  on  Friday,  day  of  the  holy  passion  of  our  Seigneur,  to  the 
place,  to  witness  the  ceremonj^  of  giving  to  the  Signer  Prince 
Don  Cosimo,  his  eldest  son,  a  gold  spade,  with  which  the  latter 
dug  some  earth  of  the  foundations,  and  loaded  a  gilded  basket 
with  his  own  hand." 

The  foundations  laid,  the  ceremonies  terminated,  and 
the  labor  of  building  commenced,  the  Grand-duke  said, 
Qui  sard  il  nostra  fine,  —  "  Here  will  be  our  end. "  In 
January  he  gave  further  orders  for  a  rich  chapel  to  be 
built  behind  the  choir  of  the  church,  which  was  designed 
by  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  who  understood  architecture,  and 
executed  by  Matteo  Nigetti,  sculptor.  Note  the  jasper  of 
Barga  and  Sicily,  with  granite  of  Elba  and  Corsica 
wrought  into  pavement,  and  the  incrustation  of  those 
seven  imposing  sepulchres  of  the  dead  Medici.  Cosimo 
II.  has,  in  addition,  a  cushion  set  with  precious  stones,  — 
rubies  and  topaz,  in  Oriental  chalcedony  and  jasper  of 
Cyprus.  Note  the  thread  of  history  connecting  each 
around  the  walls,  in  the  arms  of  the  towns  subject  to  their 
rule,  escutcheons  of  Chiusi,  Siena,  Montepulciano,  or 
Borgo  San  Sepolcro,  inlaid  with  lapis-lazuli,  agate, 
mother-of-pearl,  giallo-antico,   and  verde-antico. 

Duke  Ferdinand  levied  tribute  on  the  shores  and  moun- 
tains of  Tuscany  to  decorate  his  tomb ;  yet  these  did  not 
suffice,  and  if  the  flint  pebbles  of  the  Arno  bed  were  util- 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  65 

ized  in  the  tints  requisite  for  laurel,  olive,  and  myrtle 
branches,  he  sought  farther  afield,  as  did  King  Solomon 
when  he  built  the  Temple,  for  the  red  agate  of  Goa,  the 
green  jasper  of  Candia,  Egyptian  granite,  transparent  ala- 
baster, carnelian,  and  chalcedony  of  the  East.  Admira- 
tion of  the  splendor  of  his  design  touches  us  even  now  in 
the  stillness  of  the  Chapel  of  the  Princes  so  long  after  he 
has  found  here  a  fitting  resting-place.  "  Here  will  be  our 
end ! "  Surely  the  lustre  and  blended  hues  of  precious 
marbles  are  more  beautiful  touched  by  the  sunshine  and 
caressed  by  the  winds  of  Italy  than  in  other  lands,  unless 
beneath  the  blue  sky  of  Greece. 

Duke  Ferdinand  sought  to  preserve  the  name  of  his 
family  in  such  imperishable  form  as  pietra-dura.  He 
died,  leaving  the  task  uncompleted,  and  the  electress- 
palatine,  in  her  time,  as  last  member  of  the  house,  fin- 
ished the  chapel.  She  ordered  Jadot,  director  of  the  royal 
works,  in  1740,  to  gather  together  all  the  materials  requi- 
site, and  have  the  cupola  painted. 

The  bells  once  more  sway  in  the  campanile.  "A 
mean  and  unimpressive  sanctuary  is  San  Lorenzo,"  they 
seem  to  insist,  with  shrill  clamor.  Have  you  forgotten 
that  the  old  parish  church  was  the  Cathedral  of  Florence 
at  one  time,  and  rebuilt  by  the  liberality  of  Giovanni  de' 
Medici  ?  On  this  so-called  squalid  piazza,  crowded  with 
ignoble  shops  of  clothing  and  old  furniture,  magnificent 
ceremonies  took  place  when  Pope  Clement  VII.  sent  to 
the  shrine  of  his  family  the  gift  of  fifty  vases,  containing 
relics  of  saints  for  the  altar  of  San  Lorenzo  before  which 
sleeps  Cosimo,  Pater  Patriae.  In  November  of  the  year 
1532  the  canon  of  San  Lorenzo  was  ordered  to  receive  the 
munificent  donation,  which  had  been  first  deposited  at  the 
monastery  of  Annalena.  Accordingly,  on  the  14th  of 
the  month  the  fifty  vases,  made  of  sardonyx,  agate,  crys- 
tal, carnelian,  and  amethyst,  with  silver  handles  and  lids, 

5 


66  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

were  borne  on  a  platform  covered  with  gold  cloth  from  the 
monastery  to  the  church  by  a  procession  of  the  clergy, 
magistrates,  and  people,  and  deposited  in  the  sacred 
edifice. 

The  day  of  Saint  Lawrence  wears  on  to  evening,  through 
all  the  gorgeous  transitions  of  light  and  color  of  the  sum- 
mer sunset.  A  cool  twilight  ensues  such  as  Dante  strolled 
forth  in  to  enjoy  the  evening  hour  in  the  Piazza  of  the 
Duomo.  The  town  acquires  the  dignity  and  austerity  of 
aspect  of  bygone  centuries  in  the  softly  gathering  shad- 
ows. One  would  not  be  astonished  if  the  thin,  keen  face 
of  Savonarola  gazed  forth  from  the  cowl  of  yonder  monk, 
only  the  brown  robe  and  knotted  cord  proclaim  the  latter 
a  Franciscan.  How  could  true  followers  of  "  sweet  Saint 
Francis  of  Assisi  "  have  ever  been  notable  for  persecut- 
ing a  Savonarola  ?  To  meet  Michelangelo  glancing  at 
Ghiberti's  bronze  doors,  fit  gateway  of  Paradise,  or  Ghi- 
berti  looking  at  Brunelleschi's  dome  with  futile  jealousy, 
would  occasion  no  surprise  in  the  haunts  sacred  to  the 
memory  of  these  great  men. 

Piero  di  Neri  Acciagnoli  paces  yonder  with  measured 
tread,  wearing  his  tunic  of  gold  brocade  of  Alexandria 
sweeping  in  stiff  folds  to  the  ground,  fastened  with  silver 
buttons,  and  his  mantle  of  crimson  damask  and  hood. 
Piero  di  Pazzi  turns  toward  the  Borgo  degli  Albizi  at 
this  hour,  — the  noble  gentleman  who  possessed  such  a 
retentive  memory  that  he  could  repeat  aloud  the  ^neid 
of  Virgil,  or  the  orations  of  Livy,  as  the  late  blind  Duke 
of  Sermoneta  declaimed  whole  cantos  of  the  "Divina 
Commedia. " 

In  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  who  so  wiry  and  gay 
as  the  antiquarian  ?  His  cat  shares  his  mood.  The 
antiquarian  has  banished  his  winter  coat  bordered  with 
fur  in  favor  of  a  silky  lightness  of  texture.  He  holds  a 
amall  mosaic  box  in  his  fingers,  and  is  polishing  the  sur- 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  67 

face  with  a  bit  of  leather.  The  box  is  finished  in  ebony 
and  adorned  with  a  sprig  of  lily-of-the-valley  on  the  panels. 
You  have  never  seen  mere  commonplace  modern  mosaic 
in  the  shop  of  the  antiquarian,  and  pause  to  inspect  the 
object.  The  coincidence  of  the  trifling  specimen  of  an 
art  elaborated  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Princes  being  thus 
thrust  upon  your  notice,  as  it  were,  induces  immediate 
purchase  at  a  very  reasonable  price.  You  carry  it  home 
with  a  sentiment  of  interest  never  before  experienced  in 
mosaic.  The  antiquarian  rubs  his  thin,  wrinkled  hands 
together  with  a  professional  gesture,  pausing  on  the  thresh- 
old of  his  shop.  The  cat  cuts  a  caper,  giving  a  feline 
bound  full  of  grace  in  the  air,  then  subsides  to  a  quies- 
cent rubbing  of  arched  back  and  sides  against  the  patron's 
leg.  The  words  of  the  shop-keeper  follow  the  purchaser, 
"  This  is  a  jewel-box,  and  very  old.  '* 

Musing  on  San  Lorenzo  and  the  Chapel  of  the  Princes, 
you  place  the  box  on  the  inevitable  table,  mounted  in  gilt 
and  adorned  with  the  familiar  magnolia  blossom  of  petri- 
fied Oriental  wood  in  the  centre.  You  never  anticipated 
being  tempted  to  purchase  more  Florentine  mosaic.  San 
Lorenzo  is  responsible  for  the  folly.  No;  it  is  not  a 
jewel-box,  but  a  reliquary,  with  a  bit  of  shrivelled  parch- 
ment bound  with  tinsel  thread,  concealed  beneath  a  slide 
in  the  bottom,  and  thus  resembles  those  precious  vases 
sent  by  Pope  Clement  VII.  to  the  altar  of  the  parish 
church  of  the  Medici.  From  the  design  on  the  lid  spring 
all  the  cabinets  and  tables  strewn  with  birds,  flower  gar- 
lands, musical  instruments,  and  bands  of  tripping  muses, 
that  have  gone  forth  into  the  world. 

The  bells  of  San  Lorenzo  resound  through  all  the  adja- 
cent streets,  claiming  a  haughty  precedence  of  other  notes. 
There  is  no  holy  and  sweet  cadence  in  their  metallic 
utterance.  The  shade  of  the  pious  matron  of  the  fourth 
century,   kneeling  at  the  portal  of  the  sanctuary,   may 


68  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

murmur  low  in  the  summer  twilight,  "Lord,  keep  my 
memory  green/'  The  electress-palatine,  gathering  the 
volume  of  sound  of  all  the  bells  of  the  lofty  campanile, 
still  proclaims,  "For  the  glory  of  my  race." 

IV.    A   POT  OP   GERANIUM. 

"Come  with  me  to  look  at  one  of  God's  ladders  to 
heaven."  Such  is  the  invitation  of  the  artist  on  the 
November  morning,  pausing  before  the  Florence  Window, 
sketchbook  and  color-box  in  hand. 

The  artist  is  of  American  birth,  and  Florentine  by  adop- 
tion. A  sympathetic  and  robust  personality,  she  shuns 
rather  than  courts  public  recognition,  and  dreams  life 
away  in  her  studio  of  the  wide  Viale  with  the  keen, 
northern  light,  or  haunts  gallery,  garden  wall,  frescoed 
cloister,  some  nook  of  palace  court  and  stairway,  as  the 
seasons  pass  the  ebbing  grains  of  the  hour-glass.  For 
her,  and  such  as  she,  the  Flower  City  still  spreads  her 
richest  banquet  of  artistic  enjoyment.  "I  like  to  walk 
through  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon,"  she  muses. 
"  I  am  here  a  humble  follower  of  a  phantom  host  of  the 
great  ones,  those  earlier  brothers,  the  artists.  I  should 
like  to  shake  hands  with  Donatello  on  this  very  spot,  and 
exchange  the  time  of  day  with  old  Cimabue,  in  his  peaked 
hood.  Stay!  I  am  the  ghost,  and  they  are  the  reality. 
They  are  still  here,  while  I,  the  feeble  shadow,  am  not 
Do  you  ever  think  of  that  when  you  look  out  of  the  case- 
ment on  the  Shrine  of  the  Five  Lamps  at  midnight  ?  " 

"  Yes, "  we  reply. 

The  artist  lapses  into  more  profound  revery  as  her 
gaze  strays  half  wistfully  in  the  direction  of  the  Duomo. 
Sudden  discontent  clouds  her  strongly  marked,  sun- 
bronzed  features.  "  Courage !  In  a  future  state  you  will 
surely  know,  and  be  one  of  them,"  we  hasten  to  add. 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  69 

"  Where  is  situated  your  celestial  ladder  of  this  morning, 
0  dreamer  of  dreams  ?  " 

She  smiles  and  makes  a  slight  grimace  of  relenting 
humor.  "A  church  tower,"  she  explains  in  a  brusque 
tone.  "  I  am  making  a  study  of  all  the  Florentine 
campanile. " 

"The  guidebooks  state  that  there  are  eighty-six  or 
seven  churches,"  we  interpose  warningly. 

"  When  I  have  completed  my  series  of  water-color  draw- 
ings some  critic  will  prefer  the  gentle  art  of  amateur  pho- 
tography," the  artist  pursues.      "  Come  along. " 

"  Possibly  more  speedy  recognition  of  talent  might  have 
fallen  to  the  share  of  most  of  us  had  we  lived  at  an  earlier 
day, "  we  suggest,  as  we  emerge  into  the  street.  "  This 
is  such  a  gifted  as  well  as  crowded  age,  you  know. " 

"An  age  of  art  needle-work!  Who  buys  all  the  em- 
broidered cushions  and  perfumed  sachets  in  the  world  ? 
How  can  the  supply  possibly  be  exhausted  ?  Ah,  the 
needle  and  the  distaff  are  still  sad  enemies  of  the  brush 
and  the  pencil,   as  Caterina  Ginnasi  said." 

The  idea  of  having  been  born  out  of  time,  and  destined 
to  thrive  better  in  another  generation,  tickles  the  fancy  of 
the  artist,  and  affords  food  for  whimsical  speculation  all 
along  the  Via  Cerretani,  the  Via  Rondinelli,  and  the  Via 
Tornabuoni,  to  the  Trinita  Bridge,  where  she  pauses  ab- 
ruptly to  rifle  the  basket  of  the  brown  little  flower- 
woman  of  marigolds,  copper-hued,  with  golden  disks. 
"  What  would  existence  be  worth  without  daffodils,  prim- 
roses, and  marigolds  ?  "  she  exclaims,  selecting  a  bunch 
of  richest  tints.  "Better  a  crust  of  native  bread,  un- 
salted,  in  the  Flower  City  than  gloomy  skies,  mud,  and 
rain  elsewhere ! " 

A  marked  trait  of  character  of  this  plain,  rather  mas- 
culine woman,  with  the  short,  curling  hair,  is  that  she  is 
seldom  devoid  of  a  fresh  flower  attached  to  the  breast  of 


70  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

faded  ulster,  shabby  jacket,  or  summer  gown.  She  leads 
the  way  across  the  bridge,  along  the  Via  Santo  Spirito 
to  the  narrow  Via  Maffei,  where  she  pauses  before  a  small 
house  and  rings  the  bell  of  the  most  diminutive  of  doors. 
"The  church  tower  is  that  of  Santo  Spirito.  Did  you 
imagine  I  was  about  to  plant  a  camp-stool  in  the  middle 
of  the  square  to  sketch  it  ?  " 

In  response  to  the  cautious  inquiry  of  the  mistress  of 
the  house,  CM  e  f  ("  Who  is  it  ?  ")  and  satisfactory  expla- 
nation, we  ascend  an  external  flight  of  stone  steps,  much 
worn  and  broken,  to  a  tiny  apartment.  The  hostess,  a 
little  woman  with  a  sallow  visage  and  a  pair  of  eager, 
restless  black  eyes,  receives  us  with  innate  grace  of 
manner.  The  interior  is  of  a  dainty  cleanliness :  the  red 
tiles  of  the  floor  have  been  freshly  polished  with  oil, 
vinegar,  and  sawdust ;  and  a  crisp  muslin  curtain  drapes 
the  window.  An  ivory  crucifix,  mounted  on  an  ebony 
cross  of  finely  executed  workmanship,  and  having  the 
milky  whiteness  of  a  freshly  peeled  almond,  hangs  on  the 
wall.  On  a  table  and  faded  sofa  lie  billows  of  antique 
lace,  frostwork  pattern  and  creamy  fold  defined  by  a  dark 
cloth. 

The  little  woman  is  a  trinaja  (lace-vender),  and  a  glance 
at  her  deft  yellow  fingers  suggests  how  skilfully  this  hu- 
man spider  mends  broken  meshes,  belonging  to  the  ward- 
robe of  great  ladies,  tinges  the  Venetian  point  a  deeper 
tint,  or  spreads  her  own  modest  store  to  tempt  purchasers, 
with  a  wheedling  insistence  of  manner.  "  A  fichu  of  true 
point  d^ aiguille  ?  A  priest's  cope  ?  No  ?  This  flounce  of 
Renaissance  lace,  period  of  Raffaelo  of  Urbino,  then  ?  " 
the  trinaja  coaxes,  a  sudden  brilliant  smile  on  her  thin 
face,  revealing  white  teeth. 

"  No,  Elena !  I  wish  to  admire  your  pot  of  geranium 
this  morning,  and  make  a  drawing  of  the  Campanile  of 
Santo  Spirito  from  the  kitchen  window." 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  71 

"  Willingly,  Signora. " 

The  hostess  thrusts  aside  the  filmy  and  heavy  laces,  and 
leads  the  way  to  a  miniature  kitchen  which  makes  a  picture 
in  itself.  The  room  is  narrow  and  small,  the  projecting 
chimney  occupying  one  side  over  the  primitive  Florentine 
hearth,  where  a  coal  glows  in  a  tiny  aperture.  Several 
culinary  utensils  of  copper  glisten  on  hooks  on  the  wall, 
while  an  adjacent  table  holds  a  loaf  of  bread,  a  bundle  of 
fresh  salad,  and  several  carrots  and  onions.  On  the 
opposite  side  a  tiny  window,  with  a  pot  of  geranium  on 
the  ledge,  frames  the  church  tower,  rising  slender  and 
dark  against  the  sky.  The  humble  casement  overlooks  a 
spacious  garden  where  roses,  myrtle,  and  heliotrope  bloom 
in  sunny  nooks,  sheltered  by  high  walls  and  houses. 

"The  geranium  has  more  blossoms,"  Elena  an- 
nounces, touching  the  pale  pink  stars  with  a  tender  pride 
of  proprietorship. 

A  tiny  transparent  snail-shell  is  attached  to  a  green 
leaf,  like  a  fairy  mansion  of  pearl.  When  Elena  addresses 
the  snail  with  injuries  and  reproaches,  as  a  glutton  in- 
tent on  devouring  her  one  poor  plant,  and  is  about  to  snap 
the  parasite  off  into  the  garden  below  with  finger  and 
thumb,  the  artist  restrains  her  from  the  act  of  violence. 

"Leave  the  poor  snail  in  peace,  Elena,  for  the  fore- 
ground of  my  sketch.  He  only  asks  a  little  salad,  a  mor- 
sel of  leaf  of  you.  How  would  you  like  to  be  deprived  of 
your  bunch  of  endivia  yonder  ?  Remember  the  snail  is 
also  Italian." 

"  Ah !  What  a  good  soul !  "  the  trinaja  retorts  gayly, 
and  nibbles  a  bit  of  the  endive,  as  if  to  prove  the  truth 
of  the  artist's  assertion. 

The  latter  removes  her  hat,  thrusts  back  her  short  curl- 
ing hair,  and  opens  her  sketchbook  on  her  knee. 

Elena  clasps  her  hands  on  her  breast  with  a  dramatic 
gesture.     "  If  I  were  a  lady,  I  would  have  rich  flowers  and 


72  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

rare  plants  all  about  me  everywhere !    I  would  prefer  them 
to  many  jewels." 

"  So  would  I, "  assents  the  artist. 

The  little  woman  nods,  flits  away,  and  presently  returns, 
carrying  Giotto's  Campanile,  carved  in  ivory.  The  hus- 
band is  a  worker  in  ivory,  with  considerable  artistic  abil- 
ity, and  times  are  dull  for  trade.  He  has  wrought  for 
years  on  this  hand's  breadth  of  tower,  in  leisure  moments 
and  on  holidays,  hoping  to  send  it  to  some  world's  ex- 
hibition. Elena  holds  up  the  toy  to  the  sunshine,  and  a 
soft,  rosy  glow  permeates  the  airy  structure.  She  scruti- 
nizes it  with  an  expression  of  scorn  and  mockery.  "  Now 
that  the  thing  is  finished,  there  is  no  place  for  it  at 
Paris  or  London,"  she  mutters.  "Leonardo  asks  five 
hundred  francs.  Bah !  He  will  be  lucky  if  he  ever  gets 
two  hundred  francs." 

"  Some  rich  prince  travelling  through  Italy  may  buy  the 
tower, "  suggests  the  artist,  encouragingly.  "  You  brought 
it  out  just  to  show  how  much  more  beautiful  is  the  work 
of  Leonardo  than  anything  I  may  hope  to  achieve  in  a 
study  of  the  Campanile  of  Santo  Spirito." 

Elena  laughs  and  tosses  her  head  slightly,  as  she  places 
the  treasure  on  the  table.  Mistress  of  all  subtleties  of 
human  expression,  as  concealing  thought,  the  shrewd, 
sharp  thrust  of  her  visitor  has  nearly  surprised  her  into  a 
confession  of  doubt  if  the  labors  of  any  stranger  can  ever 
equal  native  talent. 

She  is  a  curious  and  a  characteristic  type,  this  trinaja, 
with  all  the  duplicity  and  nimble  address  of  the  lady's- 
maid,  as  an  endowment  of  nature,  combined  with  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  refined  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful  and 
the  artistic.  Her  birthplace  was  the  Romagna,  and  her 
mistress,  a  noble  lady  of  Ravenna,  had  reared  this  hand- 
maiden in  her  town  palace  and  on  her  country  estates, 
where  the  fashions  of  the  eighteenth  century  still  lingered, 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  73 

and  the  peasant  women  spun  the  heavy  linen  that  fur- 
nished a  portion  of  the  dowry  of  the  daughters  of  the 
house.  Imbued  with  that  spirit  of  discontent  of  the 
alien  forced  to  abide  in  one  province  of  the  kingdom 
when  a  native  of  another,  which  is  still  noticeable  in 
Italians,  Elena  was  well  married  to  the  young  Florentine 
worker  in  ivory,  and  no  doubt  given  a  portion.  Why  was 
a  Tuscan  husband  chosen  for  her  instead  of  a  man  of  her 
own  country  ?  Was  she  a  dangerous  tool,  removed  with 
all  possible  discretion  of  suitable  settlement  in  life  from 
that  patriarchal  mansion  at  Ravenna,  where  the  mistress 
inspected  the  stores  of  linen,  and  the  master  loitered  at 
the  club  all  day  ?  Hungering  for  a  splendor  of  luxury 
altogether  above  her  station,  prone  to  moods  of  sarcasm 
and  excitement  followed  by  a  reaction  of  despondency, 
visionary,  bitterly  envious  of  prosperity  or  happiness  in 
others,  she  delights  in  the  trade  of  lace -vender,  taken  up 
at  a  time  oi  need,  when  the  irksome  routine  of  service 
would  irritate  her  restless  spirit.  The  very  chances  of 
the  day  of  selling  nothing  at  all,  or  of  reaping  a  harvest 
of  ready  sales,  exhilarates  her.  Life,  as  a  lottery  of  haz- 
ard, blank  disappointment,  and  brilliant  success  charms 
her  imagination.  There  is  something  feline  about  her; 
and  this  miniature  interior,  so  dainty,  clean,  and  attrac- 
tive, must  be  an  uncomfortable  abode  for  the  little  hus- 
band and  the  little  son,  subject  to  sharp  recrimination 
and  sudden  storm-gusts  of  feminine  temper. 

"I  have  one  boy,"  she  states,  in  response  to  inquiries 
concerning  her  family.  "Dante  must  enter  the  army  or 
the  service  of  the  telegraph,  with  suitable  influence.  If 
I  had  a  girl,  I  would  shut  her  up  in  a  convent  until  the 
day  of  her  marriage.  Eh !  the  Florence  streets  are  a  bad 
school  for  any  girl." 

The  sound  of  priests  chanting  becomes  audible  in  the 
kitchen. 


74  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  the  funeral  cortSge  of  the  major  of  artillery 
to  the  railway  station.  Poor  man !  Two  days  ago  he  was 
in  good  health,  and  now  he  is  dead.  Mai  di  petto  (con- 
gestion of  the  lungs),  you  understand,  and  then  the  miliari 
fever  set  in,  and  all  hope  was  over.  It  is  always  like 
that,  from  our  late  King  Victor  Emanuele  to  his  son,  the 
Duke  of  Aosta.  Even  the  blood-letting  of  our  bravest 
doctors  does  not  save  them." 

Elena  makes  this  explanation,  with  her  head  held  on 
one  side  in  a  meditative  a,ttitude.  The  chanting  swells 
louder,  passes  the  house,  and  dies  away  in  the  distance, 
merging  into  the  funeral  dirge  of  military  music. 

"  What  a  farce  it  all  is,  the  singing,  the  candles,  and 
the  incense !  "  the  lace-woman  adds,  her  thin  lips  curling 
into  a  satirical  smile. 

You  observe  her  with  surprise.  She  is  a  sceptic,  then, 
dwelling  here  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  church  ? 

The  artist  mixes  colors  on  a  tiny  porcelain  palette. 
"  The  Frate  of  Santo  Spirito  are  the  landlords  of  Elena, " 
she  suggests  slyly. 

The  thin,  dark  little  face  of  the  hostess  changes  swiftly. 
"I  wish  the  Frate  would  mend  the  tiles,"  she  remarks, 
with  recurring  laughter  and  turn  of  mood  to  good-humor, 
as  capricious  as  her  frowns. 

Here  the  cat  of  the  household  vaults  on  the  window- 
ledge  from  some  convenient  projection  of  adjacent  wall, 
peers  in  the  narrow  casement  with  round  yellow  eyes,  as 
if  reconnoitring  the  premises,  whisks  deftly  around  the 
pot  of  geranium  without  disturbing  a  leaf,  and  bounds  in- 
to the  arms  of  the  mistress.  The  animal,  large,  plump, 
and  gray  in  hue,  understands  life  in  its  own  fashion, 
asking  only  shelter  and  human  companionship  of  the  lace- 
woman,  prowling  over  the  roofs  as  a  pastime,  and  foraging 
for  small  game  with  remarkable  success,  to  judge  by  the 
sleek  proportions  of  its  body.     A  descent  to  terra  jirma 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  75 

would  possess  no  attractions  to  Pussy  save  for  one  power- 
ful allurement,  —  to  sit  on  the  wall  and  taunt  to  the 
verge  of  distraction  the  dogs  of  the  adjacent  garden  is  a 
diversion  that  never  fails  to  enliven  the  cat,  varied  by 
stealthy  descents  to  the  grass  of  the  enemy's  territory. 
A  frantic  dash,  growl,  and  scramble  across  the  garden 
ensues,  the  brood  of  puppies  whimpering  with  excitement 
in  the  rear,  and  too  young  to  join  in  the  sport ;  and  the 
gray  cat  is  once  more  perched  on  the  wall,  with  a  mien 
of  cool  impertinence  and  abstraction,  as  who  should  say, 
^  Can  you  possibly  be  barking  at  me  ?  " 

"  Sometime  the  fierce  dogs  will  catch  thee, "  Elena  ad- 
monishes,  caressing  the  pet. 

The  cat  replies,  with  a  conceited  manner,  and  as  plainly 
as  a  cat  can,  while  briskly  purring  thanks  for  any  interest 
in  the  matter,   "  Is  that  your  opinion  ?  " 

Sunshine  penetrates  the  narrow  kitchen  window.  The 
scent  of  flowers  floats  up  from  the  old  garden,  and  mingles 
with  the  fragrance  of  the  sturdy  geranium  plant  on  the 
ledge.  The  ivory  campanile  on  the  table  glows  golden 
yellow  in  the  light,  while  beyond,  the  salad-leaves  acquire 
an  emerald  green  tint. 

The  aromatic  and  pungent  odors  of  the  geranium  carry 
imagination  far  from  the  spot  to  the  margin  of  the  Medi- 
terranean Sea,  where  the  limpid  waves  lapse  about  inlet 
and  promontory  of  tawny  red  rocks,  and  the  vigorous 
geranium  clings  to  every  terrace  of  garden  wall  in  luxu- 
riant growth.  On  the  Riviera  alone  does  this  humble 
friend  of  the  poor,  adorning  windows  in  pots,  acquire  a 
right  to  belong  to  such  exalted  company  as  the  palm,  the 
olive,  citron,  and  myrtle.  A  bell  sends  forth  a  prolonged 
and  liquid  note,  and  in  thought,  even  while  gazing  at  the 
shaft  of  tower  from  the  casement,  we  quit  the  side  of  the 
artist,  traverse  the  street,  and  gain  the  Piazza  of  Santo 
Spirito. 


T6  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  space  is  tranquil  and  pleasant  to  the  eye,  with  some 
lingering  remnant  of  green  shrubs  and  trees  in  autunm 
weather,  a  fountain  glistening,  and  a  group  of  women 
seated  together  knitting  and  gossiping  as  they  watch 
the  children  at  play.  Unlike  the  gray,  arid  desolation  of 
the  wind-swept  Piazza  Santa  Croce,  the  picturesque  and 
lofty  palaces  surrounding  the  Square  of  Santo  Spirito  do 
not  redeem  the  enclosure  from  a  modern  aspect.  The 
yellow  and  brown  leaves  fall  noiselessly  from  a  withered 
tree  about  the  group  of  women.  Saint  Martin's  Day !  The 
soft  languor  of  the  second  summer  broods  over  this  nook 
of  the  town,  shut  in  by  tall  houses  terminating  in  project- 
ing roofs  and  loggie^  painted  with  half-effaced  frescos. 
The  bells  burst  forth  with  a  sudden  clamor  in  honor  of  San 
Martino.  The  popular  saint  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  sol- 
dier who  shared  his  cloak  with  the  beggar  at  Amiens  on  a 
cold  night,  embodying  all  benevolence  in  charity,  is  pleas- 
antly associated  in  Italy  with  the  hazy  warmth  of  still 
November  days.  What  varied  memories  their  clamor 
evokes  on  this  spot !  Here  was  held  the  fair  of  the  Guild 
of  Wool  on  the  Festa  of  San  Martino,  the  11th  of  Novem- 
ber, until  the  year  1452,  when  it  was  transferred  to  Santa 
Croce. 

The  church  is  vast,  stately,  and  cold,  —  a  repellent  edi- 
fice, where  the  closing  door  awakens  hollow  echoes,  shut- 
ting out  hopelessly  the  mellow  world  of  sunshine  of  Saint 
Martin's  Day,  and  deserted,  in  appearance,  save  for  the 
presence  of  a  few  desultory  worshippers.  The  interior  is 
a  polished  temple  of  precious  marbles,  icy  pavement, 
fine  pictures,  and  vast  aisles  of  columns ;  but  it  possesses 
neither  the  quaint  attractiveness  of  the  little  Church  of  the 
Apostles  on  the  quaint  Piazza  del  Limbo,  reputed  to  have 
been  endowed  by  Charlemagne,  nor  the  calm  beauty  of 
Santa  Maria  Novella.  In  our  day,  with  the  Passion  Play 
of  Ober-Ammergau  as  the  lingering  remnant  of  religious 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  77 

spectacles  dramatized,  let  us  pause  beneath  the  dome  of 
Santo  Spirito,  listening  to  the  melody  of  the  bells. 

In  1470,  Galeazzo  Sforza,  Duke  of  Milan,  accompanied 
by  his  duchess  and  court,  paid  a  visit  to  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent.  The  item  of  history  is  sufficiently  sugges- 
tive. The  duke  travelled  over  the  pass  of  the  Apennine 
with  litters,  mules  richly  caparisoned,  soldiers,  pages, 
and  dogs  and  falcons  of  the  chase.  The  reception  of  the 
courtly  Lorenzo  was  suited  to  guests  of  such  luxury,  and 
the  Flower  City  was  made  to  wreathe  herself  in  smiles  for 
one  of  the  powerful  friends  and  dangerous  adversaries  of 
the  age,  in  the  petty  warfare  of  the  small  Italian  States. 
Florence  acquitted  herself  gracefully  of  the  task  imposed 
upon  her  of  exercising  a  princely  hospitality,  as  she 
has  received  since  many  a  sovereign  ruler  of  diverse 
nationalities. 

Among  the  entertainments  devised  on  this  occasion  by 
the  Signory  and  the  people,  three  sacred  spectacles  were 
given,  to  the  great  admiration  of  the  Lombard  mind :  the 
Annunciation  of  the  Virgin  was  enacted  in  the  Church  of 
San  Felice,  the  descent  of  the  Holy  Spirit  to  the  Apostles 
in  the  Church  of  Santo  Spirito,  and  the  ascent  of  Christ 
into  heaven  at  the  Carmine.  The  quaint  rustic  imper- 
sonation of  Biblical  scenes  on  summer  days  among  the 
Bavarian  hills  must  yield  precedence  in  splendor  to 
those  earlier  pageants  of  Italian  churches.  To-day 
Santo  Spirito  is  silent  and  cold.  We  may  muse  on  the 
tradition  that  Luther,  a  humble  pilgrim  monk,  on  his 
way  to  Rome,  preached  here,  and  find  some  echo  of  his 
threatening  voice  in  the  reverberations  of  the  closing 
door. 

Galeazzo  and  Lorenzo,  no  doubt  emulating  each  other 
in  exchange  of  compliments  and  deeper  diplomatic  dis- 
simulation, surrounded  by  the  throng  of  ladies,  sparkling 
with  jewels,  once  sat  in  the  then  existing  older  church, 


78  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

to  enjoy  the  pageant  prepared  by  Maestro  Cecca  the  en- 
gineer, on  the  memorable  day  March  22.  By  means  of 
those  mechanical  contrivances  which  suggest  the  later 
achievements  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  modern  stage 
scenery,  the  space  above  the  choir  of  the  sanctuary  was 
converted  into  a  sky,  where  angels  hovered  amid  rosy 
clouds  reaching  up  to  the  giddy  height  of  roof,  studded 
with  stars.  These  seraphic  beings  —  pretty  boys  of  the 
age  of  thirteen  years  —  flew  about,  or  turned  in  mazy, 
harmonious  measures  to  the  strains  of  sweet  music,  join- 
ing hands  in  revolving  circles,  or  moving  softly  with 
arms  entwined,  as  one  beholds  them  in  ancient  pictures 
and  in  the  frescos  of  a  cupola.  At  the  summit  sat  the 
Padre  Memo  enthroned,  with  Christ  on  His  right  hand. 
Cherubs  of  eight  years  old  fluttered  about  the  throne, 
holding  in  their  midst  the  dove.  Below  was  arranged  a 
chamber,  illuminated  with  torches,  in  which  sat  the 
Apostles  and  the  Madonna  at  a  Supper-table,  in  easy  and 
natural  postures.  In  the  space  nearer  the  pavement,  a 
box  or  pavilion  held  the  actors  who  declaimed  the  dif- 
ferent portions  of  the  festa.  At  a  suitable  moment  the 
luminous  dove  held  by  the  cherubs  floated  down  to  the 
group  of  expectant  Apostles.  Garlands  of  oil-lamps  were 
placed  amid  the  clouds  and  decorations,  shedding  abroad 
scintillations  of  radiance  which  amply  satisfied  the  sumptu- 
ous Duke  of  Milan  and  the  bland  Tyrant  of  Florence,  un- 
used to  electric  globes,   gas,   and  magnesium  wire. 

Behold !  the  festa  terminated,  the  guests  and  the  crowd 
departed,  a  porter,  who  deserves  a  place  in  the  history 
of  the  city  as  own  brother  of  the  faechino  of  the  public 
squares  of  to-day,  set  fire  to  a  socket  of  wood  among  the 
draperies,  and  the  entire  Church  of  Santo  Spirito  was 
burned  to  the  foundations.  If  we  cross  the  aisle  to  that 
altar,  we  may  still  contemplate  with  respect  the  wooden 
crucifix  alone  saved  from  the  conflagration,  when  even 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  79 

stone  crumbled  in  the  intense  heat,  —  a  fact  inspiring 
veneration  of  the  relic  in  the  population. 

From  what  source  emanates  our  first  vague  belief  that 
vast  and  frequent  incendiarism  has  not  visited  Italian 
towns,  with  their  narrow  streets,  towers,  and  damp  for- 
tress walls  ?  The  pages  of  Malespini  and  Villani  make 
frequent  allusion  to  fires,  as  now  destroying  several  pal- 
aces and  half  of  a  street  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Porta  Rossa ; 
again  as  damaging  the  building  of  the  Guild  of  Wool,  in 
the  rear  of  the  Church  of  Or  San  Michele,  or  as  in  1331, 
on  the  eve  of  the  Festa  of  Saint  John,  burning  all  the 
shops  of  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  and  occasioning  the  death  of 
two  boys.  How  did  such  fires  occur  in  these  mediaeval 
mansions,  where  furniture  consisted  of  a  few  benches, 
chairs,  and  tables,  and  master  and  mistress  ate  from  the 
same  trencher,  lighted  by  the  torch  held  by  an  attendant  ? 
Petroleum  did  not  then  exist,  as  utilized  to  illuminate 
austere  interiors;  but  the  lucerna,  fed  by  olive-oil,  may 
have  ignited  the  store  of  flasks  in  the  cellars,  and  bundles 
of  straw  from  the  country  property.  Hose,  ladder,  and 
engine,  with  the  trim  corps  of  pompieri  in  uniform  and 
helmet,  did  not  then  answer  the  summons  of  the  telephone, 
and  such  primitive  water-dipping  from  well,  cistern,  or 
river  as  the  warriors  and  citizens  of  the  Middle  Ages 
exercised,  was  insufficient  to  quench  the  furious  confla- 
grations that  consumed  entire  quarters  of  the  town. 

Other  relics  are  treasured  in  chill  Santo  Spirito,  pos- 
sessing a  curious  historical  interest.  A  leg  and  a  foot  of 
Saint  Barnabas  are  here  preserved,  —  a  saint  held  in  much 
reverence  by  the  Florentines  as  having  aided  the  com- 
monwealth in  time  of  war. 

In  the  year  1289,  when  Florence  did  battle  with  Arezzo, 
and  the  contest  of  Campaldino  was  pending,  the  priors  of 
the  city  took  a  nap  after  the  noonday  meal,  as  was  their 
custom,    having  watched  during  the  preceding  night   in 


80  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

doubt  and  anxiety  of  mind  as  to  the  issue  of  the  conflict. 
There  is  an  element  of  comfortable  maturity  of  burgher 
life  in  the  picture.  The  priors,  having  partaken  of  their 
noonday  meal,  nodded,  dozed,  forgetful  of  national  troubles, 
none  the  less  vital  to  their  hearts  because  the  world  was 
then  so  small,  and  one  city  fought  with  another.  Lo !  a 
clarion  cry  resounded  through  the  drowsy  noonday  still- 
ness of  the  council-chamber,  and  a  voice  uttered  these 
words,  "  Arise !   the  Aretines  are  defeated !  " 

The  priors  awoke,  rubbed  their  eyes,  and  sprang  to  their 
feet.  The  town  still  dozed.  No  messenger  had  arrived  in 
hot  haste  from  the  field  of  battle,  bearer  of  the  glorious 
news,  nor  did  he  appear  until  the  vesper  bell  rang  of  that 
memorable  evening,  when  the  Florentine  victory  was  con- 
firmed. All  were  aware  that  Saint  Barnabas  had  spoken, 
as  clearest  means  of  explanation  of  the  spiritual  teleg- 
raphy of  the  noonday.  No  wonder  Santo  Spirito  cherishes 
the  relic  of  so  friendly  a  saint. 

If  devoted  disciples  of  Galileo  severed  the  fingers  of  his 
right  hand  after  death,  still  preserved  in  the  Museum,  and 
Pico  della  Mirandola  the  younger  fished  in  the  waters  of 
the  Arno  for  the  heart  of  Savonarola,  after  the  ashes  of 
the  martyr  had  been  cast  from  the  Ponte  Vecchio  to  the 
tide,  why  not  a  leg  and  a  foot  of  good  Saint  Barnabas  in 
Santo  Spirito,  who  awakened  the  priors  from  their  siesta 
to  give  them  intelligence  of  victory  ?  Saint  Barnabas  was 
also  made  patron  of  La  Scarperia,  in  Mugello,  having  ap- 
peared in  the  clouds,  aiding  the  Florentine  army. 

"  There !  I  think  I  have  got  the  autumn  coloring  toler- 
ably well;  and  the  mellow,  golden  tone  of  the  horizon  is 
better  than  photography,  after  all ! "  exclaims  the  artist, 
putting  a  few  finishing  touches  to  her  sketch. 

She  rapidly  encloses  the  study  in  the  margin  of  window, 
makes  the  pot  of  geranium  bloom  in  the  foreground  with 
a  sweep  of  the  brush,  not  omitting  a  dab  of  white  paint  on 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  81 

a  leaf,  in  relief,  for  the  tiny  snail.  We  are  back  in  the 
microscopical  kitchen  of  the  trinaja,  with  the  shaft  of 
church  tower  visible,  rising  above  the  pot  of  geranium  in 
the  narrow  casement. 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  Elena ! "  adds  the  artist,  putting 
up  palette  and  brushes.  "  When  I  am  rich  I  will  return 
and  buy  all  your  lace." 

Elena  smiles,  is  flattered  by  the  use  made  of  her  kitchen 
window,  and  bids  us  farewell  with  all  possible  grace  of 
animation. 

At  the  door  we  meet  the  ivory-worker  returning  home. 
He  is  a  short,  stout  man,  with  blond  hair  standing  on 
end  all  over  his  head  like  a  thick  brush,  a  sulky  expres- 
sion, and  a  deep  wrinkle  across  the  brow.  The  husband 
of  the  lace-vender  should  have  been  Stentorello,  the  typical 
Florentine  man-servant,  dexterous,  unscrupulous,  and  full 
of  wiles.  Elena  stands  at  the  summit  of  the  flight  of 
broken  steps,  her  dainty  buckled  shoes,  with  the  perilously 
high  Louis  Quinze  heels,  visible  to  advantage.  She  greets 
her  mate  in  a  hissing  whisper, — 

"  I  saw  thee  on  the  street  with  her  just  now !  " 

"Eh I  my  cousin  from  Cortona,  and  an  honest  woman 
enough,"  protests  the  ivory-worker,  in  a  tone  of  irritation. 

"  She,  or  another !  What  does  it  matter  V  If  the  worst 
comes,  there  is  always  the  river  for  me.  Ah !  I  am  weary, 
weary  of  thy  Florence!  The  air  is  so  low  and  languid 
here,  it  stifles  and  kills  me  by  inches.  Over  yonder  in 
my  country  of  E-avenna  people  are  healthy  and  wise.  It 
is  I  who  tell  thee  so !  " 

You  glance  at  your  companion  inquiringly,  venturing 
to  hint,  "  In  the  shadow  of  the  church  tower  tragic  possi- 
bilities seem  perpetually  to  brood.  The  little  lace-woman 
is  not  one  to  die  peacefully  in  her  bed. " 

The  strong  and  serene  features  of  the  artist  remain  un- 
disturbed, as  she  turns  to  gaze  at  the  sunlit  campanile. 


82  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

"Sunshine  and  shade,  smiles  and  tears,"  she  responds. 
"  Who  knows  but  the  music  of  the  bells  may  yet  lead 
poor,  wayward  Elena  to  heaven  ? " 

V.     A   BLACKBIRD. 

On  the  spring  day  a  gift  is  thrust  upon  the  unwilling 
recipient  of  the  Florence  Window  by  the  peasant  boy  Cecco, 
his  brown  little  face  beaming  with  good-will,  and  the 
strong  white  teeth  of  the  dry  crust  and  fruit  eating  race 
gleaming  between  ruddy  lips.  The  gift  is  a  blackbird 
in  a  little  osier  cage.  "  It  is  a  trained  blackbird  [merla 
maestrata'],^^  Cecco  announces  triumphantly. 

The  boy  utters  a  little  clucking  note  coaxingly ;  and  the 
blackbird,  cocking  its  head  on  one  side,  as  if  listening  at- 
tentively, watching  him  with  a  bright,  beady  eye,  begins 
to  whistle  melodiously  a  range  of  song,  halting  abruptly 
at  the  end.  Cecco  shares  the  pleasure  of  the  bird  amateur 
of  all  lands,  the  humble  bullfinch  of  cottage  homes,  and  the 
rich  songster  of  the  Thuringian  forest,  so  welcome  a  mem- 
ber of  the  German  family. 

The  lad  is  a  son  of  the  contadino  of  a  property  situated 
on  the  slope  of  Mount  Oliveto,  and  forms  a  member  of  a 
patriarchal  family  numbering  sixteen,  of  three  generations, 
dwelling  together  in  the  harmony  of  a  bean  and  oil, 
polenta  and  cheese  consuming  household  of  weekly  routine, 
with  meat  on  Sundays.  He  is  a  heavily  built  boy  of 
twelve  years  of  age,  and  will  grow  to  a  vigorous  manhood, 
capable  of  hard  work  in  the  fields  and  vineyards.  In  out- 
ward appearance  he  is  as  thoroughly  and  clumsily  rustic 
in  his  coarse  jacket,  heavy  boots,  and  weather-beaten  hat 
as  if  he  dwelt  in  one  of  those  hamlets  perched  on  the 
slopes  of  the  Apennines,  reached  by  hours  of  slow  climb- 
ing in  a  dilapidated  and  dusty  diligence,  or  amid  the 
tobacco  plantations  of  the  district  of  Arezzo,   instead  of 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  83 

descending  the  road  to  the  gate  of  San  Frediano,  or  gaining 
the  Cascine  by  the  suspension  bridge  to  share  every  public 
spectacle  amdfesta  of  the  town.  The  country  thus  encircles 
the  Flower  City,  fringing  her  very  walls  with  olive-trees, 
iris,  and  poppies,  the  transition  to  fresh  meadows  and 
stretches  of  ripening  grain  being  wholly  devoid  of  the 
phases  of  unsightly  suburbs  characteristic  of  most  capitals. 

Cecco  is  naively  a  country  lad,  yet  from  the  stone  farm- 
house, painted  yellow  and  huddled  against  the  hill  where 
he  was  born,  with  the  barnyard  and  ricks  of  straws  adja- 
cent at  the  gate  of  the  villa,  he  may  see  all  the  church 
towers  and  the  city  outspread  below,  with  the  airy  shaft 
of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  rising  in  delicate  tracery  out  of 
the  silvery  mists  of  morning  fog.  In  the  routine  of  the 
year  life  is  still  as  primitive  on  the  side  of  Oliveto  as  it 
was  for  the  Latin  farmer  who  sowed  and  reaped  in  tranquil 
contentment,  and  sought  his  bed  by  the  light  of  the  stars. 
Cecco,  barefooted  and  joyous,  guides  the  gray  oxen,  muz- 
zled with  twigs  of  osier,  that  drag  the  plough  through  the 
furrows  beneath  the  olive-trees,  in  the  early  spring  and 
later  July  or  autumn  sowing.  He  assists  in  gathering  the 
harvest  of  figs  from  the  gnarled  and  venerable  trees  that 
have  bent  beneath  a  load  of  luscious  fruit  since  he  was 
born,  and  has  inflicted  on  himself  many  an  attack  of  sore 
throat  and  fever  by  undue  feasting  on  the  small  purple 
variety  with  a  deep  red  pulp.  On  the  women  of  the  house- 
hold devolves  the  duty  of  drying  in  the  autumn  sun,  out- 
spread on  boards,  and  frequently  sprinkled  with  caraway- 
seeds,  a  humbler  native  fruit  much  prized  by  the  town,  — 
especially  at  the  season  of  the  nut  fairs,  held  at  the  gates 
during  the  Sundays  of  Lent,  —  while  not  rivalling  in  qual- 
ity the  figs  of  the  Orient. 

In  September  begins  that  exciting  and  anxious  period 
in  the  existence  of  the  contadino  when  the  vineyards  must 
be  guarded  day  and  night,  gun  in  hand,  and  accompanied 


84  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

by  the  faithful,  if  sinister,  wolfish  woolly  dog  of  the  prop- 
erty. No  quarter  must  then  be  accorded  to  the  enemy 
either  by  the  dog's  fangs  or  the  loaded  weapon ;  and  the 
warfare  waged  has  all  the  briskness  of  perpetual  skirmish- 
ing. The  tempting  clusters  of  ripening  grapes  sway  in 
pendent  masses  of  bloom  and  fragrance,  purple,  black, 
and  golden  green,  from  the  shrivelled  vines ;  and  skurry- 
ing  youth,  with  the  instinct  inherent  in  urchinhood  of  all 
lands,  will  creep  through  a  hedge  and  risk  having  every 
bone  broken,  not  to  mention  heads,  if  only  a  coveted 
bunch  may  be  rifled.  Nay !  theft  occasionally  reaches  the 
magnitude  of  basket-loads,  when  lawsuits  result,  it  being 
clearly  proved  that  one's  neighbor  is  not  above  reproach 
where  grapes  are  in  question.  Our  Cecco  assists  in  the 
valiant  defence  of  the  soil,  acting  as  scarecrow  by  day, 
while  the  father  or  married  brother  sleeps  after  the  cease- 
less vigils  of  midnight.  On  more  than  one  occasion  he  has 
put  to  flight  some  stealthy  reprobate  of  his  own  age,  with 
the  dog  at  his  heels,  who  has  vaulted  over  a  wall  only  to 
fall  into  the  clutches  of  a  couple  of  majestic  carahinieri 
on  the  highway,  pacing  along  intent  on  the  same  aim  of 
protecting  the  vineyards. 

Later  arrives  the  period  of  festivity  in  fruit-gathering 
and  wine-making.  In  the  rare  seasons  when  the  olive- 
trees  yield  an  abundant  harvest,  Cecco  must  aid  in  kin- 
dling fires  in  the  storehouse  in  severe  winter  weather,  not 
for  the  luxury  of  warming  his  own  purple  fingers,  but  to  pre- 
vent the  clear  amber  olive-oil  from  becoming  chilled,  and 
henceforth  clouded  in  quality.  Life  has  many  festas  for 
the  boy  whose  purse  is  so  light.  He  is  not  too  poor  to  eat 
pears  and  cheese  together  on  occasion,  —  a  favorite  Tuscan 
ensemble  ;  while  in  winter  he  sometimes  buys  a  huge  slice 
of  sticky,  brown  chestnut  cake  of  one  of  the  venders  who 
carry  a  dish  and  a  stool  about  the  streets  and  suburbs  for 
the  convenient  sale  of  the  delicacy.     Sultry  summer  yields 


CHURCH  TOWER&  85 

him  the  revelry  of  a  penny  portion  of  watermelon  in  the 
vegetable  shops  outside  the  Porta  Romana.  Many  an  illu- 
mination of  town  and  hillside  has  Cecco  witnessed,  loiter- 
ing near  the  terrace  walls  of  Bellosguardo,  in  company 
with  his  brothers,  all  singing  stornelli  and  rispetti  of  inter- 
minable length,  with  the  spontaneous  bursting  into  song 
of  the  blackbird. 

The  boy  pipes  briskly, — 

"  A  fine,  handsome  knife  has  been  given  to  me, 
A  head  to  surmount  it,  a  charm  at  the  end ; 
He  who  gave  it  to  me  was  my  good  Uttle  Tony." 

The  Duomo  sparkles  below  in  the  valley  as  if  a  gigantic 
net  of  fiery  beads  had  been  drawn  over  the  bulb  of  cupola, 
while  the  campanile  rises  in  the  soft  obscurity  of  dark- 
ness like  a  shaft  of  quivering  flame,  and  fireworks  burst 
in  bouquets  of  parti-colored  bombs,  stars,  and  whirling 
wreaths  on  the  Piazza  Michelangelo.  For  the  rest,  he  is 
a  swift  matutinal  messenger,  fetching  a  flask  of  rich 
milk,  a  dainty  pat  of  butter  stamped  with  the  mysterious 
letters  B.  C,  fresh  eggs,  a  store  of  walnuts  from  the  trees 
of  the  property,  and  occasionally  salad,  or  the  practical 
potato.  Why  has  he  brought  the  unhappy  blackbird  to 
mope,  a  prisoner,  within  the  barred  casement  of  the  Street 
of  the  Watermelon,  instead  of  greeting  the  summer  dawn , 
with  his  rich  notes  from  his  tiny  cage,  suspended  on  the 
wall  of  the  farmhouse  at  home  ?  Was  the  boy  actuated  by 
the  graceful  instinct  of  the  people  in  wishing  to  make  a 
present,  however  modest,  in  acknowledgment  of  any  favor 
received  ?  Is  there  shrewd  calculation  of  the  approaching 
Pasqua  (Easter),  in  the  thrusting  of  the  blackbird  on  your 
acceptance,  —  much  as  Montmorency,  the  dog,  brought  a 
dead  water-rat  to  the  supper-party  in  the  Thames  boat, 
acting  according  to  his  lights  ? 

"  The  poor  merla  dislikes  the  town, "  you  demur. 


86  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Cecco  laughs  incredulously.  The  actual  sentiments  of 
the  merla  in  the  transaction  have  never  occurred  to  his 
mind. 

"  Pray  take  it  back  to  the  country  and  keep  it,  at  least 
for  the  summer." 

Cecco  shakes  his  head  resolutely.  His  feelings  are  not 
wounded,  but  he  does  not  intend  to  take  back  the  bird, 
fond  as  he  was  of  feeding  and  training  the  pet.  Easter  is 
so  near  at  hand.  Like  the  foreign  young  lady  who  is  in- 
formed by  the  whole  smiling  family  that  the  last  baby  of 
the  porter's  wife  is  to  be  named  for  her  as  a  tribute  to 
her  amiability,  you  wonder  what  may  be  expected  of  you 
in  the  future. 

"  Impossible ! "  says  Cecco,  with  another  shake  of  the 
head.     "Besides,   I  am  going  to  Mass  now." 

"  Ah !     Perhaps  you  are  an  acolyte  ?  " 

"No;  Pippe  [a  younger  brother]  serves  at  the  Mass." 

"Doubtless  your  family  attends  service  at  San  Yito  in 
Campagna  ?  " 

"Oh,  no!     We  all  go  to  the  Carmine." 

Now,  the  little  weather-beaten  sanctuary  of  San  Yito, 
with  the  russet-hued  belfry  furnished  with  loud  jangling 
bells,  nestled  on  the  slopes  of  Bellosguardo  between  the 
Yillas  Niccolini  and  Nuti,  is  the  parish  church  of  the 
country-side,  and  the  great  events  of  life,  birth,  marriage, 
or  death,  will  be  marked  for  little  Cecco  in  that  temple. 
Attendance  at  the  superb  and  lofty  Church  of  the  Carmine 
on  the  part  of  the  rustic  lad  surprises  and  amuses  a  trifle. 
You  follow  him  through  the  labyrinth  of  narrow  byways 
of  the  Old  Market-place  and  Ghetto,  along  a  mediaeval 
alley  which  is  like  a  mere  fissure  in  the  masonry,  and 
suggestive  even  now  of  the  lurking  assassin  of  former 
times,  and  the  stealthy  flight  of  the  thief  of  to-day  to  the 
Lung'  Arno  Acciajuoli,  and  thence  across  the  Trinita 
Bridge.    How  grateful  the  shade  of  the  opposite  Lung'  Arno 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  87 

Guicciardini  usually,  with  the  vivid  and  rich  contrast  of 
coloring  of  the  long  line  of  buildings  shining  of  a  golden 
yellow  tint  in  the  sunny  glow,  with  reflections  in  the  river 
below!  To-day  fog  lingers  after  a  long  period  of  rainy 
weather,  and  the  tones  of  both  banks  are  neutral  and  dull. 
The  brink  of  the  Ponte  Carraia  is  reached,  the  Borgo  San 
Frediano  traversed,  and  the  Piazza  Carmine  opens  before 
you,  swathed  in  mists. 

The  square  is  irregular  in  form,  arid,  unkempt.  Bar- 
rows of  venders  of  small  wares  and  loads  of  household 
furniture  dragged  by  vociferating  porters  seem  to  con- 
tend for  supremacy  on  the  spot.  The  sunshine  lies  warm 
on  this  southern  exposure,  and  ragged  forms  gather  to 
enjoy  the  genial  warmth.  Beyond  the  limit  of  palace  to 
the  westward  lies  a  No  Man's  Land,  where  the  pedestrian 
must  not  venture,  — the  Florentine  Ghetto,  Seven  Dials,  or 
Five  Points,  since  the  demolition  of  the  Old  Market,  where 
poverty  and  crime  herd,  crushed  back  to  the  limit  of  town 
wall.  In  this  unattractive,  even  unsightly  place,  devoid  of 
shrubs,  fountain,  and  statue,  and  with  that  mildew  stain 
of  San  Frediano  quarter  on  the  margin,  the  church,  with 
rough,  unfinished  facade,  stands  at  the  farther  extremity, 
in  no  wise  beautiful  externally,  unless  for  grandeur  of 
dimensions. 

Little  Cecco  cannot  take  the  blackbird  back  to  the  coun- 
try again  in  the  tiny  cage,  because  he  is  going  to  attend 
Mass  in  the  Church  of  the  Carmine. 

On  such  slender  threads  of  incident  does  thought  turn 
for  the  wayfarer  in  the  Flower  City,  clothing  faded  images 
with  fresh  colors  for  each  new-comer,  and  affording  .food 
for  musing  speculation.  The  Carmine  inspires  a  sudden 
and  vivid  interest  in  your  mmd.  Along  the  route  and 
even  across  the  river  the  bells  have  summoned  you  to  con- 
templation of  an  ancient  shrine,  and  to  a  consideration  of 
the  antiquity  of  the  Carmelite  order.     The  sanctuary  rests 


88  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO 

embalmed  in  the  sunshine,  fog,  and  rain  of  the  softly  laps- 
ing centuries,  while  the  bells  ring.  Formerly  thrust 
beyond  the  boundary  of  city  wall,  the  Florentine  Bishop 
Giovanni  laid  the  foundation-stone  of  the  sacred  edifice  in 
1262.  Clone  Tifa  di  Rinieri  Vernacci,  of  the  parish  of 
San  Felice,  and  parent  of  that  Messer  Petrello  of  the 
Ghibelline  faction  who  signed  the  treaty  of  peace  between 
Guelph  and  Ghibelline,  on  the  Piazza  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
in  the  presence  of  the  Latin  legate,  left  money  for  the  pur- 
pose of  completing  the  church.  His  testament  was  fulfilled 
by  his  widow.  Donna  Agnes.  These  stones  must  have  been 
cemented  together  into  a  completed  whole  very  slowly,  for 
the  first  ceremony  of  consecration  did  not  take  place  until 
the  year  1436,  when  Pope  Eugenius  IV.  deputed  Bishop 
Ambianense,  aided  by  Fra  Ludovico  Mairini  of  Lucca, 
while  some  further  rites  took  place  in  1438  imder  Fra 
Natale,   Bishop  of  Venice. 

The  fog  drifts  in  low  curling  wreaths  across  the  open 
space,  now  drawing  close  an  impenetrable  curtain  of  white 
vapor,  and  again  lifting  to  reveal  glimpses  of  moving 
shapes,  portions  of  buildings,  hints  of  boundaries  more 
suggestive  than  complete  disclosure. 

In  a  group  of  pedestrians  approaching  the  American 
church  for  the  customary  Sunday  service,  located  in  a 
nook  of  the  Carmine  wall,  like  the  nest  of  certain  sea-birds 
attached  to  a  cliff,  is  a  lady  wearing  an  eccentric  costume 
composed  of  richly  blended  striped  stuffs.  Lo !  she  is  not  a 
modern  traveller,  but  the  transient  embodiment,  dawning 
and  vanishing  in  the  fog,  of  the  earlier  travellers  from  afar, 
the  Carmelites,  clad  in  those  Oriental  robes  of  the  her- 
mits of  Mount  Carmel  which  displeased  the  grave  Floren- 
tines, as  too  much  resembling  the  garb  of  the  penitents  and 
prisoners  of  that  century.  The  personality  of  these  Eastern 
pilgrims  must  have  possessed  a  charm  to  Italy  as  pictu- 
resque as  their  odd  garb.     Belonging  to  a  religious  order 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  89 

older  than  the  birth  of  Christ,  founded  by  the  Prophet 
Elijah  on  Mount  Carmel,  they  fled  to  Europe  in  1242, 
driven  from  Palestine  by  the  Saracenic  invasion.  They 
were  received  at  Venice,  Bologna,  and  Brescia,  where 
communities  were  established. 

The  lady  in  the  conspicuous  dress  vanishes  in  the  door 
of  the  American  church.  The  Carmelite  monk  of  past 
centuries  was  forced  to  lay  aside  his  striped  robe  and 
assume  a  brown  garb,  with  a  white  mantle. 

Now  the  shaft  of  the  campanile  pierces  the  soft  mists, 
and  the  dome  of  the  church  looms  through  the  pervading 
obscurity.  The  voice  of  the  bells  chimes  the  strokes  of 
the  years,  the  passing  knell  of  the  centuries.  Charity  is 
the  burden  of  the  melodious  cadence  of  this  belfry.  The 
linked  note  of  history  is  that  the  first  song  emanating  from 
the  tower  sounded  in  1396,  while  the  arms  of  the  Albert! 
sculptured  on  the  edifice  lead  to  the  supposition  of  building 
by  this  noble  family.  Another  record  is  that  Maestro 
Tommaso  de  Parrino,  who  fused  the  first  bell,  repaired  it 
in  October,  1435.  The  bells  were  all  given  by  charity,  the 
names  of  the  donors  being  inscribed  on  the  metal,  and  the 
number  receiving  addition  in  April  of  the  same  year. 

The  fog  shifts  and  dissolves  capriciously,  as  if  dispersed 
by  the  pealing  of  the  bells.  The  steps  and  great  portal  of 
the  church  become  suddenly  visible,  crowded  with  groups 
of  loiterers.  Little  Cecco  enters.  How  magnificent  is 
the  interior  of  the  Carmine  in  contrast  with  the  chili  and 
austere  seclusion  of  Santo  Spirito!  The  place  is  warm 
with  clouds  of  incense,  colored  frescos,  gilded  cornices 
and  altars,  and  elaborately  carved  marble  tombs.  The 
rustic  lad  might  well  be  awed,  and  feel  himself  ill  at  ease 
in  this  splendid  temple  of  the  town,  preferring  to  seek  his 
own  sphere  in  the  little  parish  church  of  San  Vito  in 
Campagna.  Not  at  all.  Cecco  walks  deliberately  up  the 
vast  nave,  his  quick  glance  roving  about  from  side  to  side. 


90  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Two  little  girls  with  fluffy  blond  curls,  like  the  cherubs 
of  the  altar  pictures,  trot  up  to  him,  pulling  his  jacket, 
or  embracing  his  knee  with  chubby  arms.  Cecco  smiles 
vaguely  and  patronizingly  on  these  demonstrations  of 
affection.  The  cherubs  are  his  nieces;  and  nods  from 
various  bronzed  and  sturdy  peasant  women  scattered  about 
among  the  worshippers  in  different  parts  of  the  sacred 
edifice  indicate  the  presence  of  his  family.  At  a  certain 
spot  Cecco  kneels,  but  his  bright  eyes  still  observe  all 
surrounding  objects,  animate  and  inanimate. 

An  old  custodian  has  placed  chairs  for  the  accommoda- 
tion of  a  party  of  tourists  in  the  Brancacci  Chapel  on  th-e 
right,  once  haunted  by  Raphael,  Leonardo  da  Yinci,  and 
Michelangelo,  and  is  droning  out  explanations  of  Masac- 
cio's  fresco  on  the  wall.  Filippo  Brunelleschi  and  Dona- 
tello,  those  noble  gentlemen,  Niccol6  da  Uzzano,  Giovanni 
di  Bicci  de'  Medici,  Bartolo  Yalori,  and  Lorenzo  Ridolfi, 
gaze  down  on  ignorant  Cecco  from  the  wonderful  portrait 
gallery  designed  by  Masaccio.  What  does  it  all  mean  to 
the  boy  ?  He  could  point  out  the  miraculous  crucifix  of 
wood  that  once  conversed  with  Saint  Andrea  Corsini, 
placed  in  yonder  shrine  by  the  Guild  of  Wool.  No  doubt 
he  is  familiar  with  the  descriptions  of  the  great  spectacle 
arranged  by  Maestro  Cecco,  the  engineer,  with  ingenious 
mechanism,  of  Christ  ascending  into  heaven.  Possibly  the 
peasant  absorbs  all  these  things  unconsciously,  -^the  rich- 
ness of  Masaccio's  frescoed  portraits,  and  the  lofty  spaces 
of  dome  and  aisle,  —  as  the  earth  drinks  in  the  rain  under 
the  olive-trees  of  his  own  hillside.  Swept  away  in  youth 
by  the  chances  of  conscription  or  emigration,  Cecco  would 
be  found  to  possess  an  intuitive  education  in  art,  such  as 
is  eminently  Tuscan,  if  not  Florentine,  albeit  his  daily 
conversation  might  never  rise  above  the  level  of  eating 
and  drinking,  the  here  e  mangiare  perpetually  on  the  lips 
of  the  race. 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  91 

The  fog  sweeps  low  over  the  town,  once  more  threaten- 
ing rain,  and  the  atmosphere  is  chill,  depressing,  enervat- 
ing. Easter  is  a  bead  slipped  to  and  fro  on  the  cord  of 
spring  festivals ;  but  this  day  seems  farther  removed  than 
a  week  from  the  Pasqua,  redolent  of  flowers  and  sunshine, 
even  in  association.  In  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon  the 
blackbird  sits  huddled  in  his  cage,  a  bundle  of  feathers, 
a  dismal  prisoner.  He  moves  and  utters  a  soft  note. 
Perhaps  he  hears  Cecco,  the  human  blackbird,  piping  on 
the  slopes  of  Monte  Oliveto,  while  his  elder  brother 
twangs  his  favorite  guitar :  — 

"  Mother,  if  Maria  Rosa  I  may  not  take, 
I  '11  to  Loret's,  as  pilgrim,  me  betake, 
And  every  earthly  thing  I  there  forsake.** 

"  Mamma,  se  non  mi  date  Maria  Rosa, 
Piglio  la  strada  della  Santa  Casa, 
Mi  fa  nomito  e  dbhandono  ogni  cosa" 

VI.     A  VESPER  BELL. 

The  note  of  the  evening  bell  that  lingers  in  the  Florence 
Window  floats  from  the  Tower  of  St.  Mark.  The  cam- 
panile, rising  above  church,  cloister,  and  monastery,  is  not 
visible  from  the  casement.  Of  all  the  airy  chimes  pealing 
from  the  neighboring  towers  dominating  the  city  roofs, 
this  one  awakens  the  echoes  of  memory;  and  when  the 
great  voice  of  the  Duomo,  which  drowns  all  minor  sounds, 
becomes  mute,  the  clear  tones  of  San  Marco  take  quiet 
possession  of  the  vicinity,  ringing  the  many  changes  on 
human  destiny.  It  is  a  melancholy  and  never  a  merry 
bell,  vibrating  to  the  wild  pulsations  of  fear,  suspense,  and 
every  phase  of  soul-wrung  pain  and  agony,  yet  with  an 
underlying  strength  of  sweetness,  which  is  like  the  faith 
of  immortality.  "  We  have  suffered,  but  we  have  gained 
the  battle ;  and  now  ali  is  peace,    the  /esper  bell  seems  to 


92  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

breathe  forth.  "  The  wrongs  and  humiliations  of  Savona- 
rola drew  from  our  brazen  throats  piercing  clamor  of  lam- 
entation ;  and  only  the  winds  can  now  carry  our  voices  to 
sing  a  requiem  above  the  river  where  his  ashes  were 
strewn.  Let  history  write  on  her  imperishable  scroll  of 
the  base  deed,  yet  there  will  always  linger  in  our  chime 
some  plaintive  reminiscence  of  the  martyrdom,  and  the 
mournful  cadence  of  lament  of  the  reformer's  followers 
after  his  death,  the  sheep  scattered  without  a  shepherd 
and  obliged  to  confront  timidly  violence  and  persecution. 
The  pious  old  man  San  Antonino,  the  beautiful  young 
knight  Pico  della  Mirandola,  the  worldly-wise  courtier 
and  scholar  Politian,  and  the  spiritual  artist  Fra  Bar- 
tolommeo,  —  all  sleep  in  the  church  beneath  the  shadow  of 
our  wings  of  sound.  We  ring  on  through  the  years,  and 
in  the  Flower  City  in  the  heart  of  man  reigns  peace. " 

All  the  same,  as  bells  mark  the  history  of  a  people,  the 
tocsin  of  St.  Mark  belongs  to  the  number  that  rang  at 
Palermo  on  the  eve  of  the  Sicilian  vespers,  or  the  sinister 
signal  of  St.  Germain  PAuxerrois  warning  Paris  of  the 
impending  massacre  of  Saint  Bartholomew. 

On  the  mild  April  evening,  the  Festa  of  Saint  Mark, 
drawn  by  Fra  Bartolommeo  as  the  vigorous  form  of  the 
apostle,  in  a  niche,  grasping  a  book,  in  the  picture  of  the 
Pitti  Palace,  the  sound  of  wheels  becomes  audible  in 
the  quiet  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  and  a  carriage  passes 
the  grated  casement.  The  harness  of  the  spirited  horses 
sparkles;  the  liveries  of  the  servants  are  fresh.  The  mas- 
ter, who  holds  the  reins  in  well-gloved  hands,  is  smiling, 
rosy,  and  good-humored,  of  a  carefully  preserved  maturity, 
with  the  blue  eyes  and  blond  beard  of  northern  Europe. 
He  responds  with  affability  to  all  salutations,  and  drives 
on,  the  street  gazing  after  him  without  servility  and  with- 
out envious  cynicism.  There  is  none  of  the  dull,  pent-up 
fury  of  poverty  trudging  on  foot,  against  luxurious  ease 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  93 

in  a  carriage,  ascribed  to  the  inhabitants  of  East  Anglia 
by  the  country  clergyman  in  Arcady,  in  the  contemplative 
Florentine  eye. 

"  A  good  gentleman,  very  sympathetic,  and  he  has  been 
made  a  Florentine  citizen.  He  wished  it,  and  he  is  rich. " 
Such  is  the  comment  of  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon. 
The  alien  of  to-day  has  become  a  Florentine  citizen.  He 
has  purchased,  in  some  sort,  the  consideration,  and  possibly 
the  respect,  of  his  fellow-citizens.  Henceforth  the  Flower 
City  will  caress,  cajole,  and  occasionally  make  her  charm- 
ing fetters  of  bondage  felt  by  this  new  son  of  her  adoption 
by  somewhat  onerous  claims  on  his  generous  sympathy. 
His  lines  are  cast  in  pleasant  places.  He  may  take  a 
mediaeval  villa  in  the  country,  and  enjoy  the  delights  of 
dwelling  amid  the  artificial  lakes,  parterres^  and  grottos 
of  the  Medici  princes  long  vanished,  lapsing  into  poetical 
meditation  like  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  or  indulging  in 
the  sage  reflections  of  an  Angelo  Pandolfini.  In  a  small 
city,  yet  possessing  the  resources  of  a  capital,  he  may 
mingle  with  a  cosmopolitan  winter  society,  become  a  dilet- 
tante in  art  and  music,  or  a  gourmet,  bestowing  much  care 
on  the  exercise  of  a  recherehS  hospitality.  In  a  day  of 
perpetual  motion  he  may  accept  his  home  in  Florence  as 
a  convenient  pied-d-terre,  and  flit  northward  to  Paris, 
Vienna,  St.  Petersburg,  or  Berlin,  or  take  a  yachting  tour 
to  Greece  and  Egypt.  Peace  be  with  the  new  Florentine 
citizen !  Possibly  he  may  follow  the  example  of  the  French- 
man who  recently  made  a  donation  of  twenty-five  thousand 
francs  to  the  public  charities  of  the  Flower  City,  in  com- 
memoration of  his  own  residence  for  twenty-five  years 
within  her  walls. 

Lean  on  the  ledge,  and  glance  in  the  direction  of  the 
Piazza  San  Marco,  where  the  bells  are  ringing.  That 
line  of  building  was  once  the  Hospital  of  San  Matteo.  In 
1335  Guglielmo  Balducci  di  Vinci,  of  Graziano  di  Hon* 


94  THE  LILY  OF  THE   ARNO. 

tecatini,  came  to  Florence,  entered  business,  and  joined 
the  Guild  of  Exchange.  Matters  thriving  with  this  for- 
eigner, as  he  is  designated  by  Villani,  he  built  and  en- 
dowed the  Hospital  of  San  Matteo,  and  was  honored  with 
citizenship  in  1365.  He  was  interred  after  death  in  the 
chapel  of  the  structure.  How  unchanged  is  Florence! 
Guglielmo  Balducci  did  not  drive  to  the  Cascine  of  an 
afternoon  in  a  carriage  with  yellow  wheels.  He  must 
have  ridden  a  richly  caparisoned  steed  on  occasions  of 
ceremony,  or  more  probably  walked  about  the  Piazza  of 
the  Duomo  and  the  town  on  his  own  feet.  Otherwise,  are 
not  the  circumstances,  divided  by  the  centuries,  identical  ? 

The  Piazza  of  San  Marco  is  bathed  in  some  lingering 
radiance  of  sunset  in  the  sky.  It  is  a  small  space,  most 
modern  in  appearance,  unredeemed  by  lofty  surrounding 
edifices,  with  the  low  brown  walls  of  the  monastery  of 
San  Marco  and  the  church  on  one  side,  and  opposite  a  cab- 
stand ranged  along  before  caf^s  and  shops.  Between,  a 
military  statue  is  surrounded  by  a  few  palms  and  shrubs. 
A  new  electric  tramway  halts  on  one  side  of  the  square. 
The  sweet  voices  of  the  blended  vesper  bells  and  the  shad- 
ows of  evening  are  needful  to  abstract  the  spot  from  such 
prosaic  surroundings. 

The  Botanical  Gardens  of  the  Semplice,  one  of  the  first 
founded  in  Europe,  may  still  be  visited  on  occasion ;  but 
was  the  little  palace  of  the  Medici,  surrounded  by  trees 
and  flowers,  actually  situated  on  the  west  side  of  the 
piazza  f  Did  the  religious  order  of  the  Scalzo  come  here 
to  found  their  infirmary  ?  Were  the  dens  of  the  lions, 
kept  by  the  municipality,  once  located  near  that  line  of 
boundary  wall,  as  well  as  the  quarters  of  the  cavalry  ? 
Did  the  Grand-duke  Cosimo  I.  give  to  the  convent  of  San 
Marco  a  column  of  mottled  marble  from  Scravezza,  seven 
braccia  in  diameter  and  twenty-one  feet  high,  which  was 
brought  to  the  town  on  the   27th  of  September,    1572, 


CHURCH  TOWERS.  95 

drawn  by  twenty  pairs  of  oxen,  and  fourteen  couples  of 
Turkish  slaves,  but  left  on  the  Piazza  of  San  Paolino 
until  October  9^  when  conducted  to  San  Marco  by  the 
grand-ducal  order  ?  The  column  broke  in  the  middle.  Did 
pompous  historical  events  take  place  in  this  modest  open- 
ing between  low  walls,  such  as  a  solemn  cavalcade  in 
honor  of  the  arrival  of  Louisa  of  Orleans  on  June  19, 
1661,  to  espouse  Prince  Cosimo  II.  ?  Is  it  possible  that 
where  the  commonplace  figure  of  a  man,  clad  in  black, 
has  paused  to  read  an  evening  journal  near  a  street 
lamp,  cigar  in  mouth,  a  brilliant  procession  once  wended 
its  way,  when  Duke  Ferdinand  I.  wedded  Christina  of  Lor- 
raine, —  the  bridegroom  being  escorted  by  five  cardinals, 
nineteen  bishops,  the  Duke  of  Mantua,  Cesare  d'Este,  and  a 
host  of  other  noble  gentlemen,  while  the  bride  was  supported 
by  the  Duchess  of  Mantua,  the  Duke  of  Lorraine,  the  Papal 
Nuncio,  and  the  ambassadors  of  Lucca  and  Genoa  ?  The 
reader  of  the  evening  journal  blows  a  cloud  of  tobacco 
smoke  from  his  lips;  the  claims  of  the  historical  scenes 
which  once  took  place  here  seem  scarcely  less  evanescent. 

As  darkness  increases,  the  vesper  bell  acquires  its 
sweetest  intonation. 

In  the  month  of  May,  on  the  completion  of  the  chapel 
of  the  Church  of  St.  Mark,  built  to  contain  his  relics  by 
John  of  Bologna,  the  urn  with  the  mortal  remains  of  the 
good  old  man  San  Antonino  was  placed  on  a  catalfalque  in 
the  sacred  edifice,  guarded  by  two  angels.  It  was  a  time 
of  unusual  and  severe  drought.  The  urn  was  borne  forth, 
with  a  prayer  for  gracious  and  abundant  rain  on  the  har- 
vest fields.  The  procession,  composed  of  confraternities, 
colleges  of  priests,  and  citizens  carrying  the  ensigns  of  the 
metropolis,  passed  from  the  Church  of  San  Marco  down  the 
Street  of  the  Watermelon  to  the  Duomo,  the  Canto  dei  Pazzi, 
the  Borgo  degli  Albizi,  Piazza  di  San  Pier  Maggiore,  Via 
del  Palagio,  steps  of  the  Badia,  Via  del*  Garbo  delle  Farine, 


96  THE  LILY  OF   THE  ARNO. 

Piazza  Grandiica,  Mercato  Nuova,  Porta  Rossa,  to  the  col- 
umn of  Justice,  thence  to  the  Baptistery,  and  into  the 
Duomo,  making  a  tour  of  the  choir,  and  came  out  the  Via 
de'  Martelli  and  Via  Larga  (now  Via  Cavour)  to  San 
Marco  once  more,  where  the  relic  was  deposited  on  the 
altar  of  the  new  chapel. 

Pious  historians  of  the  date  reproach  Florence  with  not 
prizing  more  highly  the  dust  of  San  Antonino,  which 
would  be  so  much  reverenced  by  other  cities,  notably 
Toledo  in  Spain. 

The  memory  of  a  blameless  life  and  the  prayer  for  the 
soft  rains  of  spring,  —  such  is  the  lingering  note  of  the 
vesper  bell. 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  87 


CHAPTER  V. 


COUNTRY  BELLS. 


TN  the  summer  twilight  leave  the  shadows  already  gath- 
-■-  ering  close  around  the  Florence  Window,  cross  the 
Square  of  St.  Mark,  follow  the  Yia  Apollonia  to  the  spa- 
cious Piazza  delP  Indipendenza,  and  thence  skirting  the 
Fortezza,  the  railway  bridge,  and  the  wide  Viale,  gain 
the  suspension  bridge  which  spans  the  Arno  from  the  bank 
of  the  Cascine  to  the  opposite  shore,  and  the  fringe  of  low 
buildings  comprising  the  quarter  of  the  Pignone. 

The  evening  is  pure  and  calm,  the  coloring  of  sky  and 
earth  such  as  no  painter  could  reproduce.  A  rosy  flush 
of  sunset  still  glows  in  the  heavens,  and  renders  the  Lucca 
Mountains  of  tawny  and  russet  hues ;  Monte  Morello  basks 
in  an  amethystine  light  of  incomparable  transparency. 
Fiesole  is  suddenly  transfigured  from  the  hoary  gray  tints 
of  earlier  hours,  as  if  the  rock  were  sprinkled  with  ashes, 
to  the  soft  lustre  of  the  petal  of  a  flower,  while  the  glass 
of  windows  in  the  buildings  sparkles,  and  a  cloud  rises 
beyond  as  the  vapor  hangs  over  Vesuvius  on  a  slender  stem^ 
and  curling  outward  toward  the  zenith,  acquires  the  sem- 
blance of  a  gigantic  pink  plume.  On  the  right  hand,  slen- 
der dark  cypress-trees  rise  sharply  around  the  sombre 
walls  of  the  monastery  of  Monte  Oliveto,  and  cluster  before 
the  Church  of  San  Miniato,  where  the  mosaic  of  the  facade 
sparkles  like  jewels  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 
Eastward  the  hills  are  enfolded  closely,  forming  the  Casen- 


98  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 

tino.  Westward  the  white  clouds  linger  on  the  summits  of 
the  Carrara  range,  as  if  fchey  were  the  fragmentary  reveries 
of  the  sculptor  in  the  half-formed  ideals  of  beauty,  elusive 
and  mocking,  that  may  yet  issue  forth  from  the  marble 
quarries  as  they  have  done  for  centuries.  The  river,  dwin- 
dled to  a  mere  glistening  thread  among  the  pebbles  below 
the  weir,  has  still  sufficient  depth  of  water  for  the  erection 
of  a  group  of  little  bath-houses  along  the  Lung'  Arno  Guic- 
ciardini  for  the  summer  months.  Was  it  at  this  point 
that  the  soldiers,  surprised  by  the  enemy  of  Michelangelo's 
cartoon,  bathed  in  the  muddy  Arno  ?  On  the  other  side, 
the  hot  white  pavement  of  the  Lung'  Arno  Nuovo,  where 
the  buildings  still  radiate  the  heat  of  the  day,  merges 
in  the  long,  cool  avenues  of  laurel  hedge,  ilex,  and  plane 
trees  of  the  Cascine  beyond.  Twilight  deepens  to  a  veil 
of  fragrant  darkness  in  the  further  reaches  of  the  public 
park  down  to  the  point  where  the  tinted  bust  of  the  Indian 
prince  keeps  watch  over  his  own  ashes  beneath  a  dome  of 
gilded  kiosque.  The  mingled  scents  of  hay  and  clover, 
gathered  into  heaps  to  dry  on  the  meadows,  and  the  spicy 
and  aromatic  odors  of  rare  shrubs,  float  on  the  evening  air, 
yet  are  dominated  by  the  wealth  of  roses  of  the  season 
blooming  in  the  parterres  of  the  piazzale  and  the  English 
garden,  the  golden  clusters  of  tiny  Banksia  roses,  Gloire 
de  Dijon,  Louise  de  Savoie,   or  Niph^tos. 

Now  is  the  season  of  high  revelry  for  the  fireflies ;  and 
the  luminous  insects  dance  in  mazy  lines  of  light  through 
the  dusky  paths  of  the  Cascine,  here  twinkling  in  a  cluster 
of  phosphorescent  stars  amid  the  glossy  leaves,  and  there 
forming  interlacing  wreaths  about  the  lower  boughs  of  the 
larch-trees, — Nature's  elfin  and  mysterious  illumination 
of  tangled  vines  and  grass,  unrivalled  by  the  artificial 
la,mps  of  the  town  on  occasions  of  festivity.  The  noiseless 
flight  of  the  fireflies  weaving  in  and  out  of  the  obscurity 
of  the  foliage  is  like  a  dream  entangled  in  other  dreams, 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  99 

Without  beginning  or  end.  The  rosy  flush  lingers  on  the 
surface  of  the  river,  and  the  dome  of  the  Cathedral  is  purple 
in  the  golden  light,  while  the  cornices  of  church,  campa- 
nile, and  Baptistery  gleam  with  the  reflections  of  mother- 
of-pearl. 

The  bells  of  the  hillside  begin  to  ring  out  the  waning 
day  softly,  and  to  ring  in  the  starlit  night.  There  is  an 
endless  variety  in  the  rhythm  of  the  Angelus  on  such  an 
evening.  Now  the  bells  sway  irregularly,  tossing  forth 
a  tumult  of  sound  from  their  vibrating  tongues  and  swing- 
ing cups,  and  again  they  ebb  to  faintest  modulations  in 
the  distance  of  hills  and  valleys,  as  if  a  mere  breath  of  the 
evening  breeze.  In  that  golden  mist  of  upper  air  the  bel- 
fries of  the  heights  about  Como  and  Lugano  seem  to  send 
forth  a  high  note,  thin  and  pure,  caught  up  and  repeated 
by  every  town  throughout  the  land  down  to  Brindisi, 
while  the  clang  of  brazen  peals  on  the  Adriatic  shore  are 
flung  across  the  Apennines  to  the  brink  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean, and  echoed  in  distant  liquid  cadences  of  dying  sound 
by  the  islands,  —  Elba,  Capraja,  Sardinia,  and  the  Lipari 
chain.  Standing  on  the  suspension  bridge,  three  distinct 
threads  of  sound  are  readily  separated  from  the  aerial  con- 
cert filling  the  atmosphere,  —  bells  of  Fiesole  on  the  left, 
bells  of  San  Miniato  on  the  right,  and  far  up  the  Casentino 
valley  a  thrilling  pulsation  which  imagination  may  render 
into  a  sound  from  the  Campanile  of  the  Badia  of  Vallom- 
brosa.  Earthward,  the  rose-tinted  river  Arno,  the  fair  city 
glistening  with  points  of  light  on  the  surface  of  marbles, 
and  the  long  line  of  dusky  trees  of  the  Cascine  extending 
to  a  margin  of  willow,  osier,  and  sedge,  with  the  fireflies 
glimmering  amid  the  leaves.  Heavenward,  soft  cloud- 
masses  forming  drifting  towers  and  battlements  on  the 
horizon,  and  the  voice  of  the  bells. 


100  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 


I.     THE  ANCIENT  MOTHER. 


In  the  July  twilight  Fiesole  treasures  her  memories. 

Fiesole  is  ever  the  Ancient  Mother  to  the  Florentine, 
whether  he  seeks  her  olive-clad  slopes  to  enjoy  a  brief 
holiday  in  some  tiny  country  house  painted  yellow  or  pink, 
perched  on  the  rock  with  his  children  and  abundantly 
stocked  luncheon  baskets,  or  mingles  with  the  crowd  as- 
sembled at  a  spacious  villa  where  memories  of  the  Medici 
and  Boccaccio  still  linger  about  the  old  gardens,  or  cele- 
brates his  own  modest  wedding  with  a  breakfast  at  a  favor- 
ite wayside  trattoria,  with  his  friend  the  tailor  as  the  guest 
of  honor.  He  may  mock  a  little  at  the  genuine  worth  of 
the  coins  and  bits  of  bronze,  the  ornaments  of  helmets  and 
weapons,  occasionally  turned  up  by  the  plough  of  the  hus- 
bandman. He  may  no  longer  reverence  her  emblems  of 
Apollo,  the  wheel,  or  even  Jove  with  his  thunderbolts, 
emblematic  of  the  three  precious  metals.  The  ignoble 
quarrel  of  a  Sunday,  when  wine  is  new  and  knives  ready 
for  use,  may  have  some  latent  spark  of  the  old  hostility 
between  height  and  valley  when  blood  is  shed.  Still 
Fiesole  is  ever  the  Ancient  Mother.  Let  life  in  the  low- 
lands, with  facile  and  shallow  ebb  and  flow  of  new  currents 
of  purpose,  regard  the  crag  above  with  respect,  and  not 
seek  to  scale  the  zigzag  curves  of  her  "  golden  road  "  by 
means  of  tramways.  Is  it  a  trifling  and  insignificant 
matter  that  the  Ark  of  Noah  rested  on  the  summit  of 
Fiesole  when  the  waters  of  the  Deluge  subsided,  or  at 
least  this  was  the  first  city  founded  after  the  earth 
emerged  as  dry  land  ?  Such  was  the  statement  of  the 
earliest  historian,  Malespini,  elaborated  by  many  a  Bib- 
lical and  mythological  fable  on  the  part  of  the  grave  and 
dignified  Villani. 

There  is  a  midsummer  period  of  glory  for  the  Ancient 


COUNTRY  BELLI^.    "    '    '  '     '    '  •lOl 

Mother  when  the  Festa  of  Saint  Rdmuio  is' celebr'at6(^,  on 
the  23d  of  July.  There  is  also  a  period  of  mid-autumn 
radiance  on  October  4,  when  in  the  sunny  warmth  of  a 
land  fruitful  in  little  green  figs  and  golden  grapes,  Saint 
Francis  is  similarly  celebrated  with  Masses  in  the  churches, 
crowds,  and  illuminations.  Then  the  grim,*  monumental 
features  of  the  pagan  town  relax  into  warm  smiles,  prayers, 
and  all  the  phases  of  an  emotional  religion  stirring  the 
temperament  of  a  Southern  peoople. 

Fiesole  has  been  converted  to  Christianity,  receives 
baptism  on  her  knees,  has  long  ceased  to  consult  her 
augurs,  to  sacrifice  on  the  fliower-decked  altars  of  her 
temples,  and  destroys  her  idols  forever,  emerging  into  the 
full  light  of  a  purer  belief,  led  by  the  hand  by  good  Saint 
Romulo.  Christendom  must  be  edified  by  the  charming 
example.  Far  back  on  the  horizon  line  of  the  brink  of  a 
new  era  for  the  human  race  that  momentous  event  occurred 
in  the  heart  of  Tuscany. 

On  the  23d  of  July,  from  the  clear  dawn,  through  the 
fiery  heat  of  noon  and  the  long  sultry  hours  of  afternoon, 
the  bells  of  the  Cathedral  of  Fiesole  have  been  repeating 
the  history  of  Saint  Romulo,  with  an  occasional  accom- 
panying peal  from  the  Franciscan  convent  church  on  the 
steep  spur  of  the  cliff  above,  and  a  lingering  cadence  welling 
up  from  San  Domenico  down  the  hill,  where  Fra  Angelico, 
the  monk,  first  dreamed  of  his  saints  and  angels  among 
the  olive-trees.  Saint  Romulo,  a  noble  Roman  by  birth, 
in  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Nero,  was  sent  to  the  prosper- 
ous city  of  Fiesole,  a  town  forming  one  of  the  twelve  of 
the  Confederation  of  Etruria.  Success  crowned  the  efforts 
of  the  missionary.  He  converted  his  charge,  and  was 
made  the  first  bishop  of  a  Christian  flock.  He  is  depicted 
in  art  in  episcopal  robes  and  carrying  the  palm.  The 
fickle  sentiments  of  the  heathen  populace  must  have  suf- 
fered change,  for  Saint  Romulo  was  slain  with  a  dagger 


lOS'  THE,  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

by  Order  of  fclie  pra&tor,  and  thus  joined  the  great  band  of 
early  martyrs  whose  memory  is  embalmed  by  the  Roman 
Church  in  the  recurring  festivals  of  the  twelvemonth.  All 
day  the  gates  of  the  villa  on  the  ridge,  adorned  with 
mythical  and  weather-worn  stone  animals,  dogs,  or  lions, 
have  opened  nospitably  in  honor  of  Saint  Romulo,  now  to 
distribute  the  dole  of  small  coin  to  all  mendicants  who 
demand  succor  on  this  day,  or  to  receive  such  pilgrims 
as  toil  up  from  the  Arno  basin  amid  the  cypress  and 
ilex  trees  to  while  away  the  hours,  each  in  his  own 
fashion. 

The  invalid  hostess  pervades  the  place  with  the  grace  of 
her  presence.  She  is  a  foreigner,  possibly  an  epicurean, 
and  she  tenants  the  terraces,  with  the  dilapidated  foun- 
tains and  rockwork,  the  spacious  chambers  of  the  man- 
sion, with  the  scagliosa  floors  like  ice  to  the  feet,  the  stiff 
furniture,  gilded  chairs,  and  dark  pictures,  the  paths' 
redolent  of  lemon,  oleander,  and  pomegranate,  as  a  fleet- 
ing ray  falls  on  a  sun-dial.  The  habitation  belongs  to  the 
Ancient  Mother,  Fiesole,  and  the  human  inmates  that  suc- 
ceed one  another  for  a  brief  season  are  the  rays  on  the  dial 
that  pass,  while  she  remains  unmoved.  The  fashions  of 
these  wayfarers  change  according  to  their  era.  Prelates 
in  rich  vestments  have  paced  these  avenues  bordered  with 
statues.  Many  a  party  in  brocade,  powder,  and  buckled 
shoes,  looking  as  if  they  had  just  fluttered  from  a  Watteau 
fan,  have  laughed,  sung,  and  feasted  beside  the  box  hedge. 
The  white  hawthorn  near  the  gate,  which  drives  away  sad 
or  evil  thoughts,  according  to  the  shepherd  of  La  Brie, 
was  planted  by  a  French  lady  resident,  who  essayed  to 
found  a  salon,  and  failed.  The  ash-tree  of  Odin  on  the 
parapet,  with  the  red  berries,  is  a  souvenir  of  the  occu- 
pancy of  a  Scandinavian  poet. 

The  day  belongs  to  Saint  Romulo.  Mature  masculine 
wits  may  discuss  politics  over  the  modern  cigar,  tossing 


COUNTRY  BELLS.       '    ^  '»  '     '    '  lOS 

the  ball  of  debate  of  international  coriserVatism  and  lradi«' 
calism,  instead  of  lying  under  the  plane-trees  in  the  gar- 
dens of  Tusculum,  discoursing  on  rhetoric.  Youth  may 
wander  in  the  shade  of  pine  and  sycamore  trees,  or  gather 
violets,  lilies,  jasmine,  and  heliotrope,  at  pleasure,  in  the 
parterres.  In  the  frescoed  loggia  the  hostess,  a  wraith  of 
womanhood,  enveloped  in  white  laces  and  lustrous  tissues, 
is  extended  in  a  chaise  longue  ;  and  if  the  company  does 
not  muse  over  the  Platonic  philosophy  of  Lorenzo  the  Mag- 
nificent, —  sentiments  which  once  pervaded  the  spot,  — 
the  talk  is  sprightly,  even  spirituelle  at  times,  and  the 
music  of  mandolin,  violin,  and  guitar  inspiriting. 

Below  the  terrace  wall  adorned  with  urns  is  the  conta- 
dino,  with  a  shrewd  and  thoughtful  face,  toiling  amid  the 
vines  festooned  from  tree  to  tree,  the  "downy  apricot," 
and  "plumy  plum,"  who  may  be  another  Filippo  Man- 
gani,  the  peasant  philosopher  of  the  time  of  Newton. 

The  bells  peal  forth  sharply  and  clearly.  Each  loiterer 
must  quit  the  fragrant  and  drowsy  seclusion  of  the  villa 
precincts,  and  join  the  throng  on  the  hot  and  dusty  high- 
way to  pay  a  visit  to  the  sanctuary  of  the  saint.  The 
massive  walls  bordering  the  road  on  either  side  seem  to 
radiate  heat ;  the  eddies  of  dust  aroused  by  passing  vehicles 
are  stifling.  The  stout  gentleman  who  carries  a  silk 
umbrella  lined  with  blue  silk,  pants  suggestions  that  if  the 
spot  is  well  chosen  for  January  or  March  sunshine  for 
the  paralytic  or  the  consumptive  exile,  who  here  enjoys 
immunity  from  the  keen  tramontana  sweeping  the  Arno 
valley  and  the  summit  of  the  Acropolis  as  well,  on  the 
Festa  of  Saint  Romulo  it  is  best  adapted  for  scorpions 
to  bask  on  the  rock. 

In  the  piazza  groups  come  and  go  through  the  decorated 
portals  of  the  Cathedral,  or  gather  about  venders  of  edi- 
bles and  small  wares ;  cries  rise  above  the  hum  of  mingled 
voices,  the  squeak  of  toys,  laughter,  and  bursts  of  music. 


104'  .    •     — •  'TfiE.LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

•fftlic'peolplc  in' the 'Hoi;  sunshine  and  dust  do  not  resemble 
scorpions  basking  on  the  arid  stones,  they  are  like  insects 
of  the  cricket  and  grasshopper  tribes,  full  of  alert  move- 
ment,  aimless  running  about,  and  revelling  in  the  noise 
made  by  themselves  and  others,  brown  faces  beaming, 
black  eyes  sparkling,  hands,  arms,  and  shoulders  moving 
in  perpetual  gesticulation.  The  crowd  is  intoxicated  with 
tumult,  warmth,  light,  and  sound. 

The  brittle  straw  ornaments  of  Fiesole  find  a  fitting  place 
on  such  summer  days.  Fans,  cornucopias,  fragile  baskets 
of  every  pattern,  tiny  tram-cars  with  ornamented  roofs,  doll- 
tables,  belong  to  the  warm  season,  are  the  golden  links 
of  the  Ancient  Mother's  diminished  traffic  cast  down  to 
the  valley  world,  where  the  straw  ripens,  the  humble  wicker 
wine  flasks  and  even  the  rush  hampers  for  the  ricotta  are 
woven  in  the  fields  of  industry,  owning  a  kinship  with  the 
graceful  trifles  of  the  height. 

A  band  of  slender  young  priests,  in  black  robes,  emerge 
from  the  Jesuit  college  built  on  the  crest  of  the  walls 
like  a  fortification,  and  wend  their  way  to  the  Duomo  on 
the  piazza.  Does  the  Ancient  Mother  smile  through  the 
furrows  and  wrinkles  of  age,  crowned  with  roses,  on  the 
July  festival  ?  What  are  creeds  to  her  gray  antiquity, 
save  the  passing  of  clouds  across  the  sky  ?  Time  was 
when  a  band  of  Roman  youth  was  sent  to  her  Etruscan 
priesthood  for  instruction  in  the  mysteries  of  divination 
of  her  religion.     The  Tuscan  has  ever  respected  priests. 

With  the  approach  of  evening  the  animation  increases ; 
the  spirits  of  the  crowd  rise ;  and  the  first  tinted  lamp  of 
the  piazza^  forerunner  of  illuminations,  is  greeted  with 
a  murmur  of  satisfaction  from  all  lips. 

Nature  is  hushed,  languid,  and  the  very  trees  droop  in 
the  heat.  The  sun  has  disappeared  beyond  the  jagged 
peaks  of  the  Carrara  range,  a  great  ball  of  molten  splen- 
dor, suddenly  quenched  in  masses  of  sullen  vapor.     Storm- 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  105 

clouds  have  brooded  over  Monte  Senario  and  the  Bologna 
pass  in  the  north;  scudding  mists  swirl  over  from  the 
south  to  join  the  impending  revel  of  the  elements ;  the  pall 
of  heat  on  the  lowlands  in  the  west  is  pierced  by  lightning- 
flashes  ;  thunder  reverberates  over  the  hills  menacingly  at 
brief  intervals. 

The  human  crickets  on  the  Piazza  of  Fiesole  abate  not  a 
jot  of  chirping  hilarity.  The  lights  kindle  and  twinkle 
in  all  the  wreathing  garlands  of  paper  lanterns  hung 
around  the  square.  Now  the  slender  Campanile  of  the 
Cathedral  is  visible  in  outline  rising  against  the  dark  hill- 
side with  the  glow  of  glass  lamps ;  the  facade  is  transfig- 
ured with  myriads  of  starry  rays ;  while  the  archbishop's 
palace  becomes  a  fairy  structure  under  the  same  magic 
of  flame.  A  few  rockets  are  launched  prematurely  into 
the  sultry,   lifeless  air. 

Then  the  storm  suddenly  bursts  with  crash  of  thunder, 
with  lightnings  hissing  and  leaping  from  horizon  to 
zenith,  and  thence  smiting  the  higher  garden  walls  of 
Bellosguardo  opposite  with  rosy  fire,  or,  darting  earthward, 
cleaving  an  ancient  cypress-tree  of  the  avenue  of  the 
Poggio  Imperiale,  and  hovering  mockingly  around  the 
church  towers  of  Florence  below.  A  dense  cloud  drifting 
from  the  direction  of  Monte  Morello  appears  to  strike 
Fiesole  with  a  solid  wall  of  water.  Havoc  of  speedy  dis- 
aster ensues.  The  lanterns  are  torn  down  ruthlessly  by 
the  wind;  the  lamps  tremble  and  are  extinguished;  the 
flowers  of  the  gardens  are  destroyed  by  the  cutting  hail ; 
the  trees  writhe  in  the  tempest  and  shed  their  branches  on 
the  ground.  In  half  an  hour  the  pavement  of  the  dark- 
ened Duomo  is  flooded ;  adjacent  roofs  are  damaged ;  rivu- 
lets gush  from  every  spout,  and  trickle  down  the  erewhile 
dusty  "  golden  road, "  so  named  because  those  who  assisted 
in  building  it  had  their  names  enrolled  on  a  registry  of 
nobility.     As  swift  as  the  stroke  of  the  cruel  lightning 


106  THE  ULY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

the  hopes  of  an  olive  harvest  are  blighted.     The  human 
crickets,  huddling  in  any  convenient  shelter,  are  mute. 

Later,  when  the  stars  shine  forth  once  more,  and  the 
balmy  night  asserts  tranquil  supremacy,  the  hostess,  more 
shadowy  than  ever,  hooded  in  white  draperies,  turns  the 
telescope   of  the  terrace  for    her   guests   on  the   rising 

moon  — 

"  Whose  orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views, 
At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fiesole." 

Departing  down  the  hill,  the  image  of  the  white  form  on 
the  terrace  lingers  in  the  memory.  Is  she  a  creature  of 
flesh  and  blood,  or  an  element  of  the  deepening  mysteries 
of  the  night  on  this  spot  ?  May  she  not  be  the  ghost  of 
one  of  the  Etruscan  women  reposing  on  the  lids  of  broken 
sarcophagi  in  the  ilex  walks  of  the  villa  ?  Is  it  her  liv- 
ing voice  or  the  echo  of  her  unspoken  thought  that  reaches 
the  ear  of  her  recent  guests  ?     Epicurus  says :  — 

"  To  whom  a  little  is  not  enough,  nothing  is  enough.  The 
modern  epicurean  need  not  walk  apart,  wrapped  in  bis  cloak, 
holding  the  gods  as  a  dream  of  dreams,  denying  the  government 
of  this  world,  doubting  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  but  rather 
with  mind  and  body  in  the  absolute  equilibrium  of  health, 
and  possessing  the  acute  faculty  of  observation  without  which 
even  the  poet  must  lack  the  most  powerful  chord  of  his  lyre. 
Too  often  the  means  of  entertaining  his  friends  in  the  trinclinia 
of  his  dwelling,  waited  upon  by  a  few  slaves,  may  be  denied 
him,  or  supping  under  the  trellis  of  his  garden  on  a  summer 
evening,  as  at  Herculaneum  and  Stabia,  yet  he  may  enjoy  the 
lights  and  shadows  of  the  Arno  valley,  accepting  the  trifling  in- 
cidents of  daily  life  in  all  due  harmony  with  the  changing  hues 
of  the  encircling  Apennines,  purple,  amethyst,  tender  lilac,  and 
crj'stalline,  steeped  in  the  soft  mists  of  sunshine,  and  the  river 
flowing  under  the  five  bridges.  Ah,  Health!  The  boon  of 
health  I  '* 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  107 

The  wan  human  countenance  is  upraised  to  the  rocks  in 
mute,  despairing  appeal  of  weakness  and  pain. 

Fiesole,  the  Ancient  Mother,  treasures  her  memories  in 
the  night.  The  bells  of  the  Christian  churches  have  long 
been  hushed.  The  Festa  of  Saint  Romulo  is  over  for  an- 
other year ;  and  the  illuminations  have  been  quenched  by 
a  sudden  storm.  Calm  restored  to  the  elements,  possibly 
the  Ancient  Mother  lapses  back  to  her  earliest  faith.  The 
gnarled  fig-tree  from  the  Roman  aqueduct,  the  olive  of 
Latona,  the  red  poppies  once  used  in  amorous  divinations, 
the  vervain  of  the  Gauls,  keep  their  own  secrets. 

"  Dear  to  Alcides  are  his  poplar  groves ; 
Bacchus  the  vine,  the  myrtle  Venus  loves; 
Apollo  glories  in  his  own  green  bay  ; 
And  Phyllis  dotes  upon  the  hazel  gray." 

II.     A  ROSE  OF   VALLOMBROSA. 

The  rose  is  pressed  between  the  pages  of  a  book,  — 
a  shrivelled,  brown,  and  lifeless  flower;  but  even  such 
decay  cannot  rob  the  souvenir  of  the  lingering  fragrance 
of  memory. 

The  rose  bloomed,  delicate,  full-blown,  and  with  fragile 
petals  of  a  paler  pink  tint  than  its  sisters  of  the  warmer, 
lower  slopes,  in  a  path  near  the  former  foresteria  of  Val- 
lombrosa,  now  converted  into  a  summer  hotel.  The  bud 
was  plucked  on  the  noon  before  the  Festa  of  the  Assump- 
tion, in  mid-August ;  otherwise  the  trampling  hordes  that 
scaled  these  heights  on  the  morrow  must  have  crushed 
and  annihilated  the  solitary  flower.  The  day,  the  hour, 
the  season,  recur  vividly  with  the  scent  of  the  dried 
petals. 

The  fine  road  turning  sharply  to  the  left,  up  from  the 
close  and  shadowless  valley  at  the  town  of  Pontassieve, 
the  causeway  built  by  the  Government,  along  which  the 


108  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

students  of  the  Forest  School  bore  the  remains  of  the 
American  minister,  Mr.  Marsh,  on  their  shoulders  a  few 
years  since,  affords  a  first  grateful  glimpse  of  grass  and 
chestnut-trees  about  the  group  of  stone  buildings  of  Pa- 
terno,  the  winter  home  of  the  Vallombrosan  monks. 

The  Casentino  possesses  no  beauty  in  the  midsummer, 
unless  association  be  able  to  clothe  castle  and  parched 
hillside  with  a  poetical  element  of  interest  wholly  inde- 
pendent of  reality.  The  heights  are  barren,  with  hard 
tones  of  gray  and  brown,  the  course  of  the  Arno  marked 
by  a  debris  of  white  stones,  the  suburban  mansions  of 
crude  tints,  with  closed  shutters,  the  villagers  lacking 
in  all  picturesque  features.  The  women  wear  no  gayly 
colored  costumes  wherein  to  dance  the  tarantella  in  the 
shadow  of  a  vine-covered  pergola,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  tambourine,  like  the  typical  Italian  peasant  girl  of 
the  artist.  The  men,  with  brawny  arms  bared  to  the 
elbow,  suspend  skeins  to  dry,  purple  and  black,  taken 
from  the  dyer's  vat,  weave  wicker  flasks  for  wine,  or 
lounge  in  the  narrow  doors  of  butcher  and  baker's  shop 
to  inspect  a  passing  carriage. 

Hence  the  refreshment  and  delight  of  turning  up  the 
government  road  at  Pontassieve  into  a  realm  of  shade  and 
coolness,  where  Nature  wears  her  loveliest  aspect  of  the 
summer-tide  in  the  entire  Yal  d'Arno.  Of  all  the  beauti- 
ful memories  left  by  a  mediaeval  monk  on  the  pages  of 
the  great  book  of  Christianity,  that  of  Saint  John  Gual- 
berto,  the  founder  of  Vallombrosa,  deserves  to  rank  among 
the  first. 

The  story  of  the  noble  cavalier  who  met  the  murderer  of 
his  brother  descending  from  the  height  of  San  Miniato  on 
Good  Friday,  and  stayed  his  hand  from  a  bloody  revenge 
when  his  adversary  knelt  at  his  feet,  with  arms  crossed 
awaiting  death  or  forgiveness,  belongs  to  the  history  of 
the  Flower  City  in  the  eleventh  century.    The  laying  aside 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  109 

of  weapons  and  the  garb  of  a  profligate,  worldly  life,  after 
the  first  sacrifice  of  allowing  the  adversary  to  depart  un- 
harmed, were  equally  characteristic  of  the  age,  as  well  as 
the  subsequent  retirement  to  the  cloister.  Dissatisfaction 
with  the  routine  of  the  suburban,  conventual  rule  at  San 
Miniato  evinced  the  highly  strung  and  sensitive  soul  of 
the  penitent. 

We  are  pilgrims  to  his  shrine  on  the  summer  day. 
What  countless  hosts  of  pilgrims  have  preceded  us  through 
the  centuries!  To  ascend  the  winding  road  is  to  enjoy 
the  work  of  the  monk  who  turned  from  the  city  in  the 
valley  to  dwell  in  the  wilderness.  At  the  outset  the  senses 
are  soothed  by  the  abundance  of  pure  water  gushing  forth 
in  silvery  rills  from  the  rock,  as  if  struck  by  the  wand  of 
a  Moses,  dripping  into  stone  basins,  and  purling  down  in 
grateful  moisture  amid  the  grasses  and  tangled  vines. 
Surely  pure  water  flowing  from  the  hills  can  have  no 
more  precious  significance  than  on  this  spot,  unless  the 
oasis  of  the  desert  be  excepted. 

Then  the  realm  of  the  sombre,  stately  pines,  planted 
and  fostered  by  the  monks,  is  gained,  and  on  the  plateau 
framed  by  these  forest  monarchs  stands  the  monastery  of 
which  Ariosto  wrote :  — 

"  Cosefu  nominato  una  hadia, 
Ricca  e  bella,  ne  men  religiosaf 
E  cortese  a  chiunque  vi  venia." 

There  rises  the  spacious  and  imposing  Badia,  unharmed 
by  time,  with  the  walls  of  a  warm  chrome  color,  the  fine 
church  flanking  the  pile  at  one  extremity,  and  the  cam- 
panile defined  against  the  background  of  green  hill.  The 
monastery,  now  utilized  by  the  Italian  Government  for  a 
school  of  forestry  during  the  least  severe  months  of  the 
year,  bears  the  seal  of  a  prosperous  and  cultivated  religious 
body,  accustomed  to  the  exercise  of  a  courteous  hospital- 


110  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

ity,  as  commended  by  Ariosto,  rather  than  of  the  primitive 
shrine  of  a  penitent,  who  braved  the  untried  dangers  of 
these  solitudes  for  a  life  of  meditation  and  prayer,  aban- 
doning the  world.  The  haunts  of  San  Giovanni  Gualberto 
must  be  sought  among  secluded  paths  and  in  sheltered 
woodland  dells  where  fragile  ferns  grow  about  the  mossy 
urn  of  some  forgotten  spring,  where  the  tiny  rill  sings  to 
itself  in  a  subdued  tone  all  day,  or  a 'dismantled  altar, 
the  shrine  of  a  broken  cross,  suggests  spiritual  struggles 
past,  silenced  forever  in  the  recurring  autumns  and 
winters. 

On  the  crag  above  the  Badia  is  perched  the  small  clois- 
ter known  as  11  Paradisino,  gained  by  a  steep  ascent  to 
the  right  or  by  means  of  a  more  leisurely  climb  to  the  left, 
skirting  the  stagnant  green  waters  of  an  ancient  fish-pond, 
the  grassy  slope  beside  the  flowing  streamlet  on  one  side, 
and  the  irregular  walls,  barred  casements,  and  closed 
chapel  of  the  ancient  convent  on  the  other,  by  the  broad 
paved  causeway,  which  has  the  stations  of  a  penitent's 
walk  still  traceable  at  the  angles  on  the  margin  of  the  pine- 
clad  ravine,  —  mouldy  tabernacles  supported  by  reclining 
saints  so  rudely  fashioned  in  stone  that  they  resemble 
early  Roman  carvings.  The  little  grassy  plateau  is  reached 
with  another  spring  of  water  flowing  limpid  and  pure  into 
an  urn  from  the  adjacent  rocks,  and  by  a  gate,  and  tiny 
vegetable  garden,  the  charming  Paradisino  of  many  medi- 
tative friars  may  be  visited,  with  the  wide  expanse  of 
misty  Arno  valley  outspread  to  the  right. 

On  the  meadow  is  the  foresteria,  —  the  building  where 
women  might  lodge  in  monastic  times,  —  now  an  hotel. 

Perfumes  of  every  grade  of  balmy  delicacy  salute  the 
pilgrim.  Above  the  head  tower  the  straight  pine-trees, 
here  acquiring  the  semblance  of  dusky  and  fragrant  cathe- 
dral aisles  with  the  massive  trunks  for  columns,  and  there 
lying  prone  down  the  slope,  felled  by  order  of  the  Govern- 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  Ill 

ment.  The  hot  sunshine  distils  balsamic  scents  from  the 
resinous  bark,  ripening  cones,  and  the  very  needles  of  past 
seasons  shed  down  and  sifted  noiselessly  into  hollows  out 
of  the  reach  of  winter  tempests,  beneath  the  foot.  How 
far  do  the  pines  of  Yallombrosa  journey  out  into  the 
world  ?  Will  this  firm,  tapering  trunk  lying  across  the 
path  yet  serve  as  the  mast  of  a  fishing-boat  on  the  Medi- 
terranean or  the  Adriatic  ?  Surely  the  rustle  of  the  wind 
in  the  branches  of  the  closely  interwoven  canopy  of  green 
far  overhead  has  a  subdued,  sustained  sound  like  the 
murmur  of  the  sea.  Possibly  the  pines  sigh  in  melancholy 
tones  their  own  requiem  of  the  solitudes  where  they  are 
born,  and  shudder  "  through  their  robes  of  darkness  "  when 
a  forest  guard  passes,  gun  on  shoulder,  or  those  nimble 
young  men,  the  students,  perform  mysterious  evolutions 
of  measurement  with  engineering  instruments  and  cords, 
marking  the  next  forest  monarch  doomed  to  destruction. 
Other  odors  float  up  from  the  valleys,  —  thyme  and  va- 
nilla from  delicate  blossoms  starring  the  hillside,  hay  and 
clover  from  the  fields  where  the  white  oxen  toil,  and  the 
flower  of  some  invisible  shrub  resembling  grapes. 

The  minute  mosaic-work  of  Nature  in  the  plants  of  the 
slopes  changes  its  livery  each  fortnight,  in  the  floral  suc- 
cession of  the  season. 

At  a  bend  of  the  road  a  bronzed  matron,  wearing  a  blue 
jacket  and  a  yellow  petticoat,  proffers  a  basket  of  mush- 
rooms for  sale,  which  resemble  bits  of  twisted  leather  cov- 
ered with  leaves.  These  tough  and  poisonous-looking 
fungi,  lilac-tinted,  white,  and  tawny-yellow,  are  the  har- 
vest of  the  slopes,  affording  a  valuable  element  of  food. 

A  smiling  girl,  whose  early  bloom  has  not  faded,  with 
a  red  handkerchief  tied  over  her  head,  holds  up  coaxingly 
her  store  of  little  strawberries. 

The  children  hover  like  shy  wild  birds  on  the  bank  with 
their  scanty  gleanings  of  flowers,  silvery  white  thistles. 


112  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

and  golden  grasses  adapted  to  drying,  hoping  to  earn  a 
few  coppers. 

Aged  men  and  crones  whine  for  the  alms  of  charity, 
withered,  bent,  and  leaning  on  sticks,  their  garments  like 
autumn  foliage,  and  with  an  aspect  of  having  haunted  the 
precincts  of  San  Giovanni  Gualberto's  oratory  since  the 
foundation.  These  are  depicted  in  Miss  Alexander's 
"  Christ's  Folk  of  the  Apennines, "  —  a  book  unequalled  for 
poetical  insight  and  breadth  of  sympathy  with  the  people, — 
as  well  as  the  slender  brown  maidens  who  bring  fruit  down 
to  the  Baths  of  Lucca  from  the  distant  Monte  Pellegrino. 

The  voice  of  the  bells !  Where  else  in  the  Val  d'Arno 
do  the  chimes  possess  such  sweetness  as  when,  ringing 
from  the  hillside,  tinkling  far  down  the  valleys,  the 
mingled  tones  are  caught  up  and  imprisoned  for  a  mo- 
ment amid  the  groves  of  Vallombrosa  ? 

Is  there  nothing  new  under  the  sun  ?  Woman,  so  long 
sternly  excluded  from  the  cloister,  whatever  her  rank  and 
condition,  has  stormed  the  height  with  attendant  clamor 
of  children,  governesses,  and  nurses.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  the  fair  Italian  siren  is  bored,  and  sighs  enviously 
for  German  spa,  Swiss  resort,  or  Mediterranean  seaside 
garden  concert.     Sylvan  glades  do  not  interest  her. 

The  Venetian  countess,  seated  on  the  historical  site  of 
a  shrine  where  pious  brethren  distributed  bread  to  poor 
women,  in  a  bizarre  toilette  with  knots  of  ribbon,  yawn- 
ing over  her  embroidery  and  cigarettes,  would  have  co- 
quetted with  the  monkish  founder  of  Vallombrosa  in 
person. 

The  German  governess  on  the  grass  reads  delicious 
morsels  surreptitiously  from  a  yellow  volume  hidden 
amid  the  wools  and  canvas  of  her  work-bag,  just  loaned 
to  her  by  the  young  Roman  gentleman  lounging  in  a  ham- 
mock on  the  edge  of  the  adjacent  wood.  The  fraulein  has 
abundant  golden  hair,  a  freckled  countenance,  and  features 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  113 

rounded  to  insignificance.  She  is  modestly  attired  in 
black,  and  shod  with  those  stout  boots,  winter  and  sum- 
mer, which  evince  a  well-regulated  organization.  In  the 
service  of  an  affable  and  genial  Sicilian  princess,  she  is 
supposed  to  occupy  an  enviable  situation.  In  reality,  she 
is  bound,  Ixion-wise,  to  a  wheel  of  duty  that  revolves 
ceaselessly ;  and  she  is  never  alone.  Her  pupils  are  hand- 
some, affectionate,  and  intelligent;  yet  when  she  believes 
that  she  holds  them  firmly,  by  means  of  the  influence  of 
her  own  superior  cleverness,  they  elude  her  grasp  and 
mock  at  her  dismay.  She  is  rendered  responsible  for 
them,  alive  or  dead,  night  and  day.  Her  accomplishments 
are  as  varied  as  the  claims  upon  them.  She  is  expected 
to  read  the  German,  French,  and  English  poets  aloud  to 
her  patroness,  when  not  lavishing  the  skill  of  her  own 
superb  musical  accomplishments  on  pouting  and  refractory 
young  girls.  Skilled  in  artistic  and  conventual  embroi- 
deries, her  leisure  is  usually  employed  in  designing  or  finish- 
ing altar-cloths  destined  for  favorite  sanctuaries  by  the 
princess,  who  is  devote^  and  allows  her  household  no  meat 
from  Friday  to  Monday  of  each  week.  The  governess 
must  be  sprightly,  attentive,  polite,  and  her  discretion  so 
absolute  that  she  does  not  arouse  the  jealousy  and  sus- 
picion of  the  feminine  element  in  her  intercourse  with  the 
men  of  the  family,  young  or  old,  while  she  must  soothe 
the  resentment  of  maids  and  nurses  that  her  position  is 
superior  to  their  own,  by  many  zealous  little  services 
of  letter-writing  and  gifts.  "  My  signora  allows  the  for- 
eign governess  to  come  to  the  table,  while  I  eat  in  the 
kitchen,  and  all  because  she  has  a  little  instruction," 
says  the  halia^  dandling  the  last  baby  in  the  corridor; 
and  the  red  ribbons  and  gold  pins  of  her  head-gear  bristle 
with  self-importance. 

"  Of  course !     You  like  it,  eh  ?  "  assents  the  Piedmon- 
tese  lady's-maid,  mockingly,  —  a  sallow  girl  with  pearl 


114  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

powder  visible  on  her  nose,  the  small  head  of  a  snake,  a 
tress  of  heavy  black  hair  secured  by  a  silver  dagger,  and 
eyes  suggestive  of  those  domestic  tragedies  dear  to  a  cer- 
tain class  of  French  novelists. 

Poor  fraulein !  The  young  Roman  gentleman,  whiling 
away  the  drowsy  afternoon  with  cigars  and  novelettes  in 
the  hammock,  —  type  of  the  modern  golden  youth  of  all 
lands,  — has  loaned  the  governess  Tinseau's  "  Sur  le  Seuil," 
partly  actuated  by  kindness,  and  partly  by  a  wish  to  tease 
his  mother  and  sisters. 

If  the  fraulein  were  another  queen  of  Roumania,  Carmen 
Sylva,  she  would  gather  the  children  about  her  in  this  un- 
rivalled open-air  drawing-room,  —  the  meadow  of  Vallom- 
brosa,  —  and  weave  graceful  legends  into  stories  for  their 
delight,  instead  of  on  the  shores  of  the  North  Sea.  To 
the  right  rises  the  group  of  buildings,  the  monastery, 
church,  and  campanile,  crowned  by  the  whitish  Paradi- 
sino  ;  and  below  the  belt  of  oak,  beech,  and  chestnut,  all 
Tuscany  extends,  veined  by  the  glistening  thread  of  Arno, 
wending  a  course  from  its  cradle  in  the  rocky  fastnesses 
of  the  Falter ona  to  the  sea. 

Instead,  the  governess  sails  on  the  Nile  in  imagination 
for  a  delightful  half-hour,  and  is  herself  a  heroine  of 
romance,  young,  beautiful,  rich,  and  respectfully  adored 
by  a  noble  gentleman. 

Poor  Fraulein  Miiller!  The  children,  resembling  hu- 
man fiowers,  in  their  gay  costumes,  broad  hats,  and  flut- 
tering sashes,  play  on  the  lawn.  Here  some  lingering 
reminiscence  of  the  circus  leads  a  group  of  chubby  boys  to 
attempt  to  break  their  necks  by  feats  of  ground  and  lofty 
tumbling  over  canes,  hoops,  and  scarfs  held  by  admiring 
little  sisters,  bright-eyed,  olive-tinted,  and  vivacious. 

There  the  daughters  of  the  Egyptian  consul  of  a  neigh- 
boring Mediterranean  port  play  a  game  of  the  fair  with 
painted  cards,  —  a  sort  of  Doctor   Busby,  —  under  the 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  115 

supervision  of  their  Swiss  bonne,  heavy  tresses  braided 
down  their  backs,  great  dark  eyes  veiled  languidly,  dresses 
yellow,  dull  red,  and  vivid  scarlet,  and  boots  of  Russia 
leather,  making  a  spot  of  Oriental  color  amid  the  sober 
greens  of  the  height. 

The  slender  and  pale  little  Prussian  lad,  who  executes 
military  manoeuvres  all  day  on  the  brink  of  the  ravine, 
using  the  walking-stick  of  his  invalid  father  for  a  repeat- 
ing rifle,  challenges  his  comrades  to  the  active  sport  of 
making  war.     He  wishes  continually  to  far  la  guerra. 

The  haughty  little/Duke  of  Vicenza  arranges  tin  soldiers 
on  a  mimic  battlefield  for  mortal  combat. 

"  These  are  Austrians,  and  these  Italians, "  he  proclaims 
with  patriotic  fervor.  "  One  Italian  soldier  is  more  than 
a  match  for  five  Austrians.     You  will  see !  " 

Two  Florentines  fence  with  rattans,  in  admiring  emula- 
tion of  the  feats  performed  on  the  platform  of  the  Forest 
School. 

A  pretty  blond  Tyrolese  maiden  reads  an  English  ro- 
mance. "  It  is  so  interesting !  —  all  about  love  and  mar- 
riage, "  she  confides  to  her  brother,  the  school -boy  of  fifteen 
stretched  on  the  ground  at  her  feet. 

"Mine  is  much  better,"  is  the  scornful  rejoinder,  as 
he  turns  the  leaf  of  a  flaming-covered  pamphlet.  "One 
man  has  just  killed  another,  and  now  everybody  must  help 
to  find  it  out." 

Is  there  nothing  new  under  the  sun  ? 

The  fat  signora,  in  a  costume  covered  with  gigantic 
bunches  of  poppies,  and  the  tall  thin  signora,  in  a  striped 
black  tunic  which  renders  her  taller  and  leaner,  take  a 
walk  for  the  health  along  the  ridge,  as  enjoined  by  their 
respective  physicians.  They  pause  to  rest  at  a  chapel  with 
the  wan  spectre  of  San  Giovanni  Gualberto  exorcising  the 
demon  that  tormented  the  monk  Fiorenzo  still  discernible 
in  patches  of  crumbling  fresco   on  the  walls.     Here  a 


116  THE  LILY  OF  THE    ARNO. 

spring  of  water  purling  into  a  fountain  forms  a  deep  reser- 
voir in  which  penitents  froze  their  feet  in  the  icy  waters. 
The  two  ladies  are  acquaintances  of  the  table  d^hdte.  Once 
returned  to  the  vales  below,  they  will  scarcely  meet  again, 
for  the  thin  signora  is  an  aristocrat,  while  the  fat  signora 
is  a  plebeian.  Since  both  are  very  religious,  do  they  com- 
mune over  San  Giovanni  Gualberto  on  this  spot,  or  on  the 
edifying  example  of  the  brethren  who  dipped  their  bare 
feet  in  the  freezing  waters  of  the  basin  in  winter  weather, 
as  an  atonement  for  their  sins  ?  No.  The  lean  signora 
describes  the  trousseau  of  her  daughter,  who  married  a 
naval  officer  at  Spezia  during  the  previous  season.  The  fat 
signora  discourses  on  the  relative  efficacy  of  certain  min- 
eral springs  beyond  Pisa,  once  frequented  by  the  gouty 
Medici.  Both  agree,  with  solemnity  of  conviction,  on  the 
abomination  of  using  butter  in  cookery  instead  of  good 
oil,  and  the  necessity  of  sustaining  the  health  with  sound 
wine,  —  Chianti,  Pomino,  or  Brolio. 

White  butterflies  flutter  about  the  sunny  slope.  A 
lizard  basks  on  the  chapel  steps.  Drowsy  sounds,  faint, 
soft,   inarticulate,  float  up  from  the  Casentino. 

Is  there  nothing  new  under  the  sun  ? 

Up  at  the  Paradisino  a  brisk  little  American  matron, 
having  dined  in  a  former  chapel,  with  a  little  rusty  bell 
still  suspended  in  the  open  belfry  above  the  roof,  seats 
herself  on  a  sofa  in  a  chill  salon,  to  chat  with  the  German 
artist  about  Scheveningen,  Norway,  and  the  midnight  sun. 
In  the  wall  behind  the  sofa  is  the  mural  tablet  of  a  monk 
of  Yallombrosa,  recording  shining  virtues  of  the  cloister 
of  past  centuries.  This  ripple  of  modern  feminine  occu- 
pation, the  laughter  of  children,  and  the  bustle  of  every 
type  of  pert  maid,  does  not  disturb  the  Vallombrosans  in 
their  tombs. 

To  lodge  in  the  erewhile  foresteria,  now  the  Hotel  Croce 
di  Savoia,   on  the  14th  of  August,  is  to  be  awakened  in 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  117 

the  summer  dawn  by  the  braying  of  innumerable  donkeys. 
These  animals,  representing  every  stage  of  donkeyhood, 
from  gray  and  withered  decrepitude,  wiry  prime,  sober 
maturity,  to  foolish  and  frisky  youth,  have  climbed  the 
height  in  the  cool  hours  of  darkness  to  join  the  crowd  of 
country  folk  that  annually  seek  this  charming  if  no 
longer  sacred  sanctuary,  to  celebrate  the  Assumption,  the 
most  important  festival  of  the  year  in  Italy.  The  donkeys 
are  tethered  on  every  available  spot,  and  exchange  the 
time  of  day  in  their  own  melodious  fashion  over  bundles 
of  grass  and  clover. 

Soon  the  church  bells,  clear  and  pure,  begin  to  greet 
the  day  when  the  Madonna  is  especially  honored.  Move- 
ment ensues  in  every  direction.  Groups  of  contadini 
approach  by  paths  over  the  hills  or  ascend  the  road  in 
carts  drawn  by  oxen,  singing  canticles,  —  shrill  human 
voices  disputing  the  subdued  cadence  of  the  bubbling 
springs  of  water,  and  the  delicate  melody  of  the  leaves 
stirring  in  the  wind.  The  iron  gates  of  the  courtyard  of 
the  monastery  are  unfastened,  and  the  portals  of  the 
church  are  open  and  draped  with  red  damask.  The 
weather  is  hot  and  heavy,  the  sky  obscured  by  a  white 
mist;  and  a  furious  scirocco  wind  whirls  the  dust  along 
the  valley,  and  up  through  the  pines  of  Vallombrosa  in 
stifling  clouds. 

The  crowd  throngs  eyerj  precinct,  and  swarms  about 
the  little  hotel,  peering  in  at  door  and  window,  the  outer 
portals  being  barred  to  prevent  uncouth  rustic  intrusion. 
Two  carahinieri  with  cocked  hats,  white  gloves,  swords,  and 
sparkling  epaulets  stalk  in  the  midst  of  the  venders  of 
fruit,  sweets,  ribbons,  trinkets,  and  toys  to  assert  the 
majesty  of  law  and  order,  but  no  disturbance  mars  the 
complete  harmony  of  good-humor  during  the  long  day.  A 
rural  band  of  the  neighborhood,  in  smart  uniform,  pants 
out  the  Royal  March  and  the  Garibaldi  Hymn  more  or 


118  THE  LILY  OF  THE  AENO. 

less  discordantly  in  climbing  the  hill.  The  people  take 
possession  of  the  wide  lawn  meadow  for  their  tethered 
donkeys,  nondescript  vehicles,  and  oj)en-air  furnaces  (for/io 
di  campagna)  placed  over  a  smoky  fire,  where  fowls  are 
frizzled  in  oil.  Then  a  frugal  feast  is  spread,  and  each 
party  of  relatives  and  friends  partakes  of  the  food  prepared. 
There  is  no  drunkenness  and  no  disorder,  unless  the  inno- 
cent intoxication  of  pleasure  in  meeting  comrades,  the 
music,  and  the  ringing  of  the  bells  produce  boisterous 
hilarity  of  mood. 

The  ruddy-faced  priest,  in  a  shabby  black  robe,  from  a 
remote  hamlet  over  the  hills  in  the  direction  of  Carrara, 
greets  warmly  the  doctor  of  Florence  enjoying  a  holiday 
in  the  pure  air  of  Vallombrosa,  with  a  professional  eye 
on  the  children  and  the  copper  saucepans  of  the  kitchen. 
The  young  students  of  the  Forest  School,  chiefly  Neapoli- 
tans, literally  dip  themselves  into  the  wave  of  humanity 
after  months  of  isolation  such  as  their  soul  abhors.  The 
nobles  and  the  children  of  the  hotel  sally  forth  and  mingle 
with  the  seething  masses  with  equal  pleasure  in  the 
scene. 

The  mid-August  festival  at  Yallombrosa  possesses  few 
charms  to  the  spectator.  The  peasantry  have  no  beauty 
either  of  feature  or  costume.  The  women  are  sturdy  rather 
than  graceful,  with  cotton  kerchiefs  tied  over  their  heads, 
and  a  tendency  to  brown  plaid  gowns ;  the  men  are  jovial, 
bluff,  and  honest-looking;  they  form  a  uniform,  dun- 
colored  throng.  All  day  the  bells  of  the  entire  country- 
side peal  forth  in  jubilant  climax  of  sound  in  honor  of  the 
Assumption  of  the  Madonna. 

Departure  begins  with  the  gathering  shades  of  even- 
ing. The  oxen  and  the  donkeys  disappear  slowly  down 
the  road;  and  the  rural  band  marches  away,  strangled 
bursts  of  music  borne  back  to  the  heights  fitfully  by  the 
scirocco,  as  if  the  dust  had  penetrated  the  polished  brass 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  119 

instruments,  and  mingling  with  the  shrill,  clear  chanting 
of  canticles  by  the  girls,  taking  their  way  through  the 
woods.  Such  traces  of  the  invasion  as  the  finely  pow- 
dered glass  of  broken  wine  flasks  will  linger  in  the  grass 
and  the  paths  for  the  unwary. 

The  calm  of  twilight  ensues,  and  the  vesper  bells  ring  a 
farewell  benediction  to  all  the  gay,  chattering  multitude. 
Sound  emanating  from  the  church  tower  floats  forth  spirit - 
wise,  and  dismisses  the  wayward  company  with  a  blessing. 

The  August  moon,  full,  mellow,  and  golden,  rises  beyond 
the  Pratomagno,  and  shines  down  on  Vallombrosa  with  a 
weird  and  shadowy  effect.  A  melancholy  silence  reigns 
undisturbed  at  this  hour.  The  mountains  "  live  in  holy 
families, "  with  here  and  there  a  crag  of  gray  rock  on  crest 
or  slope  glistening  in  the  mild,  pervading  radiance.  The 
pine-trees  straggle  up  the  hillside,  or  dipping  deep  into 
the  hollows,  form  patches  of  intense  darkness.  Far  to  the 
eastward  lie  Camaldoli  and  La  Yernia,  and  the  slope 
where  the  savage  knight  Otho  came  forth  to  aid  meek 
Saint  Francis  of  Assisi  to  build  a  sylvan  hut  or  oratory 
of  boughs  and  leaves,  the  human  wolf  touched  by  inoffen- 
sive goodness.  The  moon  gleams  on  the  monastery  roof, 
and  forms  a  white  space  in  the  court  of  the  little  hotel, 
where  the  rose  bloomed  in  a  central  bed.  The  students 
are  performing  a  farce  of  Goldoni  with  much  dramatic 
skill,  in  a  tiny  theatre  of  their  own  adaptation  up  in  a 
chamber  of  the  vast  convent  building. 

Soon  the  night  rules  supreme  in  this  secluded  spot. 
The  pines  and  the  wind  hold  converse  together.  The 
transient  ebullition  of  modern  life  of  the  day  is  quenched, 
obliterated  by  the  sadness  and  austerity  of  midnight. 
Now,  if  ever,  the  monks  of  Vallombrosa  quit  the  tomb  to 
haunt  the  scene  of  their  earthly  pilgrimage. 

The  Gray  Brother  wrestles  with  a  fiend  and  erects  the 
rude  stone  cross  still  standing  on  the  ledge  to  commemo- 


120  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 

rate  his  victory.  Don  John  of  the  Cells  again  pervades 
the  Paradisino  with  the  wisdom  of  a  Socrates. 

Lo!  a  cloud  obscures  the  moon's  disk,  and  the  Gray- 
Brother  on  the  cliff  beholds  the  vision  of  a  host  of  black 
cavaliers  or  winged  demons  flying  past  on  a  mighty  whirl- 
wind, the  tempest  preceding  the  flood  of  1333,  and  one 
crying  to  the  terrified  spectator,  "We  go  to  punish  the 
city  for  her  sins,  unless  God  prevent  it ! " 

The  Abbot  Beccheria  di  Pavia,  the  Ghibelline,  set  upon 
by  the  populace  in  1252,  and  beheaded  in  the  Piazza  Santo 
Apoilinare,  showing  that  holy  men  should  not  meddle 
with  politics,  may  still  lament  his  own  temerity  at  this 
hour. 

The  Gray  Brother,  descending  a  network  of  bypaths,  may 
once  more  rescue  the  soldier,  Bourbon,  strayed  from  Cam- 
aldoli,  fallen  into  the  grasp  of  a  body  of  hostile  peasants, 
and  conduct  the  famous  leader  to  Pelago,  on  the  route  to 
Siena  and  safety. 

The  two  botanists.  Padre  Abate  Don  Biagio  Biagi,  and 
Don  Bruno  Tozze,  cull  blossoms  and  plants  bathed  by  the 
night  dews.  What  did  they  seek  in  their  time,  the  worthy 
Frate  ?  Magical  herbs  wherewith  to  cure  pain,  gnarled 
roots  deeply  hidden  in  the  rock  possessing  the  virtue  of 
revealing  treasure,  rare  fruit  or  berries,  to  distil  in  blended 
richness  with  aromatic  leaves  into  some  elixir  of  life,  and 
render  famous  the  order  ? 

The  pure  and  radiant  moonlight  floods  a  space  of  road 
once  climbed  by  Saint  Catherine  of  Siena,  accompanied  by 
Niccol6  Soderini  and  Cristofano  di  Gano.  This  remarka- 
ble woman,  whether  estimated  from  a  religious  or  a  his- 
torical standpoint,  describes  the  sanctuary  "  as  a  solitary 
place  inhabited  by  hermits,"  and  in  her  subsequent  ec- 
stasies the  mystical  passions,  the  longing  to  endure  suf- 
fering, the  spiritual  conflicts  of  the  sweet  and  the  painful, 
are  surely  haunted  by  the  demons  of  the  woods  of  Yallom- 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  121 

brosa  "  that  obscured  all  the  city  and  darkened  the  minds 
of  the  people." 

The  church  bells  have  gone  to  sleep.  As  midnight 
deepens  to  dawn,  moonbeams  or  spectral  ranks  move  noise- 
lessly through  the  pine  groves, —  a  wan  host  pressing  up- 
ward to  the  sanctuary,  often  weary  and  world-stained,  to 
be  washed  in  the  living  waters  of  these  hills.  Foremost 
to  receive  and  strengthen  such  wayfarers  is  San  Giovanni 
Gualberto,  son  of  Messer  Gualberto,  cavalier  of  the  Signori 
di  Petroio  di  Valdipesa. 

The  night  wind  whispers  in  the  canopy  of  verdure,  and 
the  springs  hidden  from  the  moon  in  the  mossy  recesses 
of  the  dells  sing  of  mercy  and  forgiveness  during  all  the 
years  since  the  knight  learned  the  noble  lesson  on  the 
height  of  San  Miniato. 

A  pressed  rose,  dry  and  colorless,  placed  between  the 
pages  of  a  book,  may  still  breathe  some  fleeting  essence  of 
the  fragrance  of  Vallombrosa.  "  Pleasure  is  a  flower  that 
fades ;  but  memory  is  the  enduring  perfume.  *' 

m.     THE  CYPRESS-TREE. 

The  cypress,  slender  and  terminating  in  a  sharp  point, 
yet  symmetrically  rounded  in  closely  interwoven  foliage 
and  branches,   grows  on  the  hill  of  San  Miniato. 

The  tree  has  its  seasons  of  vigil  and  festival,  like  the 
city  outspread  below.  The  manifold  associations  of  years 
render  it  a  sentinel  of  the  summit,  a  beacon,  black  and 
salient  in  outline,  amid  rosy  marbles  and  the  glitter  of 
mosaics, — the  narrow  needle-blade  on  the  dial  of  time  of 
growth  and  decay.  One  does  not  question  the  age  of  a 
cypress-tree  any  more  than  that  of  a  woman.  This  speci- 
men may  be  scarcely  more  than  a  vigorous  sapling  of  its 
kind,  or  may  have  already  attained  the  full  span  of  cypress- 
hood,  and  insidious  decrepitude  may  already  assail  the  roots. 


122  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  cone-shaped  tree  has  many  memories  on  this  slope. 
If  it  be  not  accepted  as  a  step  on  the  route  of  a  Calvary 
leading  to  the  tomb,  from  the  gates  of  the  Porte  Sante  up 
the  hill  from  the  city  wall  to  the  cemetery,  or  as  a  land- 
mark full  of  significance  to  a  certain  type  of  mind,  on  the 
way  to  the  Franciscan  convent  on  which  the  Christ  of  the 
pictured  cross  bowed  to  the  cavalier  Gualberto  on  Good 
Friday  so  long  ago,  in  approval  of  his  clemency  to  his 
enemy,  a  still  earlier  picture  rises  to  the  mind. 

The  east  wind  sways  the  cypress  like  a  shadowy  plume. 

The  church  and  convent  vanish,  and  a  wood  known  as 
the  Val  di  Botte  grows  close,  concealing  in  its  depths  a 
little  tabernacle  erected  in  honor  of  Saint  Peter,  where 
timid  Christians  gathered  to  perform  the  rites  of  their 
religion  in  secret,  actuated  by  fear  of  Roman  persecution 
on  the  part  of  their  rulers.  In  the  year  270,  under  the 
Emperor  Decius,  San  Miniato  lived  as  a  hermit  with  his 
disciples  in  this  grove,  called  Arishotta.  The  saint  was 
of  royal  parentage  and  holy  life.  He  suffered  martyrdom 
in  the  city  by  decapitation,  and  walked  to  the  one  bridge 
then  built, —  that  of  Fiesole  on  the  direct  road  from  Rome 
to  Florence, —  after  execution,  without  his  head.  He  found 
a  resting-place  among  the  martyrs  buried  in  the  tabernacle 
of  Saint  Peter. 

The  west  wind  sways  the  cypress- tree. 

The  river  Arno,  swollen  to  a  turbulent  flood,  flowed  past 
the  Flower  City, —  a  Roman  settlement  still  bearing  the  im- 
press of  Caesar  and  Augustus,  scarcely  emerged  from  a 
military  camp  in  the  field  of  flowers.  San  Frediano  jour- 
neyed from  Lucca,  intent  on  making  a  pious  pilgrimage 
to  the  shrine  of  San  Miniato.  The  holy  man  feared  to 
enter  the  pagan  town,  and  would  fain  cross  the  angry 
stream  in  a  frail  boat,  which  he  achieved,  despite  the  ter- 
rors of  the  boatmen,  near  the  spot  where  the  gate  now 
stands  bearing  his  name. 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  123 

The  cypress-tree  shudders  in  the  blast. 

The  height  had  been  embellished  by  the  erection  of  the 
Franciscan  church  and  monastery.  The  bones  of  San 
Miniato  were  no  longer  hidden  in  a  little  tabernacle  in  the 
wood,  but  enshrined  in  the  sumptuous  sanctuary  amid 
alabaster,  carved  wood,  and  frescos.  Villas  had  appeared 
on  the  adjacent  hills,  and  the  graceful  city  with  towers, 
bridges,  and  encircling  walls  in  the  valley  had  grown  in 
beauty  and  prosperity  with  the  unfolding  centuries,  and 
was  threatened  with  besiegement  by  the  famous  soldier, 
the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  the  forces  under  his  command. 
Michelangelo,  inspired  with  patriotic  ardor,  quitted  his 
mighty  task  at  Rome,  and  hastened  to  the  defence  of  his 
native  town,  to  aid  in  strengthening  the  fortifications. 
The  patriot  was  prepared  to  die  with  his  own ;  the  artist 
would  fain  mask  the  marbles  and  mosaics  of  the  beautiful 
temple  of  San  Miniato  in  yielding  substances  to  protect 
lustrous  surfaces  from  the  havoc  of  cannon-balls. 

The  cypress  rises  motionless  in  the  soft  mists  of 
autumn. 

The  church  bells  shed  abroad  their  mellow  note  from 
the  campanile,  announcing  the  most  animated  day  of  the 
year  on  this  spot,  the  Festa  of  All  Souls.  A  dreamy  tran- 
quillity lingered  over  the  land,  autumn  still  lending  an 
incomparable  richness  of  coloring  to  the  Yal  d'Arno.  The 
blue  sky  melted  to  opal  tints  on  the  horizon  line  of  moun- 
tains veiled  in  purple  shadows.  On  the  distant  slope  of 
the  Pratomagno,  Yallombrosa  was  visible  as  a  cream- 
colored  spot  amid  the  dark  belt  of  pines.  Opposite, 
Fiesole  rose  on  her  crag  bathed  in  a  violet  mist.  Between 
lay  the  Flower  City,  cradle  of  the  arts,  wearing  her 
most  bewitching  aspect,  her  palaces,  churches,  and  loggie 
in  blended  harmony  of  tints,  fair  and  noble  after  so  many 
storms  of  adversity.  The  glow  of  sunshine  that  softened 
all  imperfections  rested  on  roof  and  wall,  the  tower  of  the 


124  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Palazzo  Vecchio,  the  great  dome  of  the  Cathedral,  and  the 
glistening  shaft  of  Giotto's  Campanile.  Summer  drought 
more  than  early  frosts  had  seared  the  foliage.  White  dust 
lay  thick  on  all  the  highways,  where  the  country  vehicles 
passed,  loaded  with  wine  casks,  or  piled  with  pyramids  of 
wicker  flasks  from  the  harvest  of  vineyards  and  olive 
groves.  In  the  calendar  of  the  seasons  purple  and  white 
asters  bloom  in  the  paths  and  parks  bordering  the  drive  of 
the  Colle  winding  around  the  crest  of  the  hill,  succeeding 
the  earlier  wealth  of  iris,  roses,  and  lilies  that  fringe  this 
superb  margin  of  the  robe  of  the  Flower  City.  Vines  of 
the  Virginia  creeper  species,  changed  by  the  advance  of 
the  autumn  to  scarlet  sprays,  clung  to  the  terraces,  and 
bordered  the  marble  steps  leading  up  to  the  church  on  the 
summit.  The  very  atmosphere  had  soft  depths  like  sil- 
very gauze  or  the  frosted  bloom  on  ripe  fruit. 

Throngs  of  people  had  quitted  the  streets  of  the  town 
and  hastened  from  the  surrounding  country  to  this  shrine 
from  an  early  hour.  The  regret  of  mourners  may  stir 
the  hearts  of  the  bearers  of  wreaths  and  tapers  to  the 
tombs,  but  the  festa  is  a  true  holiday  to  the  laughing 
contadini  without  a  shadow  of  sad  association.  "  Eat  and 
drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die, "  is  as  plainly  written  on  the 
brown  faces  of  the  young  men  and  the  smiling  visage  of 
the  maidens,  with  their  hair  carefully  arranged  in  a  fash- 
ionable coiffure  with  combs  and  pins,  a  little  shawl  car- 
ried over  the  arm  for  evening  wear,  as  was  ever  imprinted 
on  the  features  of  the  pagan  settlement  in  the  day  of  San 
Mini  at  o. 

Is  there  not  a  certain  element  of  perennial  joyfulness  in 
this  youthful  insouciance  in  visiting  a  cemetery,  in  keep- 
ing with  the  race,  the  sunny  land,  and  the  autumn  ripen- 
ing of  the  grape,   the  fig,   and  the  olive  ? 

The  crowd  surges  up  the  marble  steps,  wave  upon  wave 
of  multi-colored  life,  chatting  and  laughing.     Groups  of 


COUNTRY  BELLS.  125 

young  soldiers  on  leave,  guards  with  a  keen  supervision 
on  thieves  of  wax  candles  and  funereal  garlands  of  im- 
mortelles, venders  of  tinsel  trinkets  and  cakes  incrusted 
with  almonds  and  the  nuts  of  the  pine  cone,  and  troops 
of  children  contend  all  day  for  right  of  way  to  gaze  at 
marble  crosses,  statues,  urns,  and  the  temples  built  by 
Poles,  Greeks,  French,  or  Belgian  exiles,  desirous  of 
remaining  after  death  near  the  campanile  of  the  Flower 
City.  Surely  no  more  lovely  cemetery  was  ever  planted 
by  the  hand  of  man  than  that  of  San  Miniato  on  the  hill- 
top, caressed  by  the  sun  and  the  wind  of  the  passing 
years. 

The  heavy  curtain  of  the  church  door  pushed  aside,  the 
ancient  temple  wears  its  most  curious  aspect  of  the  year 
on  this  occasion.  Flowers  strew  the  pavement,  marking 
the  stones  above  low-lying  heads;  little  golden  stars  of 
tapers  twinkle  on  all  sides,  shedding  a  tremulous  light 
on  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  choir,  and  illuminating  the 
mysterious  depths  of  crypt,  the  marble  incrustations  of 
pulpit  and  apse,  and  resting  on  the  mosaic  of  San  Miniato 
before  his  Saviour. 

This  is  a  true  temple  of  sleep,  despite  the  ripple  of  ani- 
mation of  the  Festa  of  the  Tutti  Morti,  guarded  by  the 
symbolical  figures,  the  doves  and  lions  rampant  of  tessel- 
lated chapels,  pillars  of  Egyptian  coralline,  jasper,  and 
porphyry,  and  stained  glass,  the  sunshine  glowing  through 
the  alabaster  windows  of  the  presbytery.  The  current  of 
youth  pervades  the  shrine.  The  palm  of  victory  belongs 
to  the  beautiful  young  cardinal  of  Portugal,  sleeping  in 
marble  repose,  watched  by  angels  in  the  shadowy  chapel 
yonder,  the  guest  of  the  monks  of  Monte  Oliveto,  pro- 
nounced by  the  Frate  Ambrose  "  more  angel  than  human  " 
in  life. 

The  contadine  press  into  the  church  to  perform  a  rite 
much  resembling  an  appeal  to  good  Saint  Valentine.     If 


126  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

the  girls  can  seat  themselves  for  a  moment  in  the  quaint 
marble  chair  of  the  bishop,  and  repeat  a  prayer  after- 
ward, thinking  of  a  lover  in  favor,  marriage  with  the 
object  of  choice  may  result  during  the  twelvemonth. 

In  the  Piazza  Michelangelo  beyond,  the  bronze  David 
watches  in  the  radiant  atmosphere,  with  golden  lights 
falling  on  head  and  shoulders,  — emblem  of  youthful 
strength. 

The  cypress-tree  stands  motionless  on  the  height.  When 
Tribolo  designed  the  statue  of  Earth  for  the  sacristy  of  San 
Lorenzo,  to  complete  the  design  of  Michelangelo,  the  fig- 
ure, with  sorrowfully  drooping  head  and  arms,  was  crowned 
with  cypress.  Such  is  the  shadowy  emblem  of  grief  of  San 
Miniato  on  the  Festa  of  All  Souls. 

We  descend  the  terraces  of  the  piazza^  cross  the  Ponte 
alle  Grazie,  pass  along  the  Lung'  Arno,  and  enter  the 
colonnade  of  the  Uffizi,  terminating  in  a  perspective  of  the 
massive  wall  of  the  Palazzo  Yecchio,  with  the  tower  soar- 
ing far  above  the  town.  Beyond,  a  flood  of  western  sun- 
shine pervades  the  Piazza  Signoria,  which  leaves  the 
equestrian  statue  of  Cosimo  I.  in  shadow,  while  bathing 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio  in  rosy  flames,  from  the  stately  portal 
to  the  battlements  where  the  shields  of  the  Republic  blazed 
in  vivid  hues, —  red,  blue,  and  gold.  In  the  Loggia  del 
Lanzi  a  beggar  sleeps  on  one  of  the  stone  benches,  his 
slumbers  watched  over  by  the  Greek  Vestals,  the  bronze 
Perseus,   and  the  dying  Ajax. 

The  clear  tones  of  San  Miniato's  funeral  bell  follow  us 
down  to  the  town.  A  scent  of  cypress,  immortelles,  in- 
cense, and  hot  wax  of  flaring  candles  pervades  even  the 
darkening  Street  of  the  Watermelon. 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  127 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BY  THE   CITY  GATE. 

TV  yrORNING  light  penetrates  the  Window  on  the  Street 
■^^■'-  of  the  Watermelon.  A  rose  has  fallen  from  the  bal- 
cony above,  and  sheds  abroad  a  delicate  fragrance  which 
may  be  accepted  as  a  greeting  from  the  entire  rose  world, 
whether  from  hedge  of  wild-brier  or  the  plantations  of 
richest  perfume  in  distant  Roumelia. 
/  In  the  rear  of  the  monastery  of  San  Marco,  divided  by 
the  space  of  street  later,  the  Persian  rose-tree  long  bloomed 
on  the  spot  where  Savonarola  preached  to  spell-bound 
listeners. 

Thought  may  be  spiritualized,  vivified  by  the  manifold 
associations  of  a  fading  rose  in  Florence.  Thought  quits 
the  window,  passes  on  swift  and  noiseless  wing  the  length 
of  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  crosses  the  Square  of  St. 
Mark,  and  follows  the  Via  Cavour  in  the  direction  of  the 
San  Gallo  Gate. 

The  day  is  a  Sunday  in  the  season  of  Lent,  bright, 
balmy,  inexpressibly  beautiful  and  serene,  in  the  joy  of 
living.  Crowds  throng  the  Church  of  St.  Mark ;  and  the 
stranger  colony  hasten  to  the  English  service  in  the  ad- 
jacent Via  Lamamora. 

Garden  walls,  chrome-tinted  and  already  suggestive  of 
spring,  flank  the  Via  Cavour,  enclosing  detached  villa  and 
hospital.  The  babies  are  abroad  in  raiment  of  pink,  blue, 
and  crimson,  in  charge  of  indulgent  fathers.  The  babies, 
their  vivacious  little  faces  half  hidden  by  poke-bonnets  or 
gigantic  hats,  toddle  valiantly,  making  vague  comments 


128  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

on  a  new  world  of  sight  and  sound,  while  elder  brothers 
and  sisters,  acting  as  escort  and  flying  squadron,  occasion- 
ally subject  them  to  rapturous  embraces.  Thus  the  San 
Gallo  Gate  is  reached. 

Pausing  at  the  corner,  what  do  we  see  ?  A  wide  modern 
square,  surrounded  by  yellow  buildings  with  uniform 
colonnades,  where  the  north  wind  sweeps,  and  the  white 
dust  eddies  in  clouds,  each  in  their  season.  Avenues 
diverge  on  either  side,  and  the  range  of  Apennines,  visible 
in  the  distance,  is  crowned  by  Monte  Pellegrino,  covered 
with  fresh  snow,  rising  like  a  pinnacle  of  silver  in  an 
atmosphere  of  soft  mists.  Fountains  shed  their  spray  in 
the  centre  of  the  piazza;  the  triumphal  arch  erected  on 
the  accession  of  Francis  II.,  Duke  of  Lorraine,  husband  of 
Maria  Theresa,  to  the  duchy  of  Tuscany  spans  the  way, 
and  before  it  still  stands  the  dismantled  shell  of  tower  of 
the  old  Porta  San  Gallo.  The  Piazza  Cavour,  spacious 
and  sunny,  might  be  a  portion  of  Munich  or  Milan.  There 
remains  only  that  detached  arch,  the  gate,  to  indicate  the 
line  of  wall  and  rampart  designed  by  Arnolfo  di  Cambio 
to  protect  the  town. 

The  spot  is  the  scene  of  unusual  animation.  The  Nut 
Fair,  held  at  one  of  the  gates  each  Sunday  in  Lent,  whether 
Porta  Romana,  Porta  al  Prato,  or  Porta  San  Frediano, 
takes  place  here  to-day. 

What  life,  color,  and  movement  pervade  the  ancient 
tower!  Little  stands  draped  with  red  and  white  cotton, 
decked  with  flags  and  garlands  of  flowers,  display  their 
wares  to  the  utmost  advantage,  —  walnuts  and  hazel-nuts, 
piles  of  oranges,  and  the  popular  briggidini,  the  thin  wafer- 
cake  of  anise-seed  and  flour,  cousin-german  to  the  Grillade  h 
I'Anis  of  Provence.  Stout  old  wives  tend  the  portable  fur- 
naces in  which  the  cakes  are  baked  by  means  of  the  irons 
with  long  handles.  The  slender  and  yellow  youth  with  black 
hair,  possessing  all  the  qualities  of  the  Florentine  popu- 


BY  THE   CITY  GATE.  129 

lace  in  nimble  wit,  mockery,  and  great  volubility  of  vitu- 
perative power,  has  a  cart  laden  with  glass  candlesticks 
and  blue  and  yellow  vases,  probably  mended  by  some  artist 
of  the  profession.  A  portly  man  with  a  bulbous  nose 
presides  over  a  lottery  wheel ;  the  booth  of  the  vender  of 
tiny  copper  kettles  and  liliputian  watering-pots  for  juve- 
nile gardeners  only  yields  the  palm  to  a  rival  in  miscella- 
neous toys ;  while  a  rack  of  genuine  rag-dolls,  guiltless  of 
noses,  yet  with  the  rosiest  of  cheeks,  suggests  the  labor  of 
the  convent. 

Above  the  crowd  rises  the  shell  of  the  old  San  Gallo 
Gate,  with  the  traces  of  fresco  still  discernible  within  the 
arch.  Past  and  present  mingle  in  the  curious  blending 
of  the  historical  and  the  artistic  with  modern  life,  which 
is  so  remarkable  a  phase  of  the  town. 

The  Nut  Fair,  the  wide  Munich  square,  the  tramway 
with  its  attendant  throng,  vanish,  and  the  boundary  of  wall 
once  more  contracts  to  the  limit  of  the  gate. 

In  the  year  1482  a  monk,  with  neither  purse  nor  scrip, 
entered  that  gate.  The  monk  was  Savonarola,  whose  fame 
to-day  attracts  the  stranger  to  these  precincts.  Small  of 
stature,  erect  in  bearing,  he  possessed  ardent  eyes,  an 
aquiline  nose,  a  wrinkled  brow,  and  a  white  skin  which 
colored  easily.  The  city  charmed  without  subjugating 
his  reason.  Florence  resembled  some  beautiful  animal 
awakening  at  his  touch  to  feline  caresses,  then  swiftly 
turning  to  rend  him  with  savage  ferocity. 

The  thread  of  his  familiar  history  is  essential  to  these 
pages.  Can  it  be  too  often  repeated  ?  Elsewhere  univer- 
sal toleration  may  be  akin  to  indifference,  but  here  we 
must  be  brothers  and  catholic  in  the  matter  of  burning 
candles  before  many  shrines.  Through  diverse  mental 
windows  has  that  man,  clad  in  the  monk's  robe  and  cowl, 
been  scrutinized  since  he  entered  the  City  Gate. 

Forgotten  in  the  eighteenth  century,  scoffed  at  by  Eng- 


130  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

lish  sceptics,  and  condemned  by  Voltaire,  to  the  German 
mind  Savonarola  is  naturally  Protestant,  after  canoniza- 
tion by  Martin  Luther  and  the  researches  of  Rudelbach, 
which  tended  to  prove  that  the  monk  of  St.  Mark  prepared 
the  way  of  the  Reformation. 

The  traveller  who  beholds  the  bronze  figure  of  Savonarola 
seated  at  the  base  of  the  Luther  monument  at  Worms 
with  uplifted  finger,  and  all  the  fiery  eloquence  of  the 
Southern  orator  discernible  on  his  aquiline  features,  can 
scarcely  fail  to  be  thrilled  with  sympathy  for  the  German 
estimate  of  the  preacher.  It  is  also  through  the  German 
mind  that  the  reformer  is  valued  as  a  delicate  and  retir- 
ing character,  yet  a  man  who,  in  an  age  of  deceit,  coward- 
ice, and  crime,  cut  through  the  hazy  sea  of  life  like  a 
ship  proof  against  storms. 

Savonarola  was  claimed  by  Yerheiden,  Jean  Wolfius, 
B^ze,  Viguer,  Cappel.  The  Lutherans  called  him  the  faith- 
ful witness  of  truth,  the  precursor  of  evangelical  reform, 
the  scourge  of  Babylon,  the  sworn  enemy  of  Antichrist, 
the  Luther  of  Italy.  On  the  other  hand,  Filippo  Neri 
and  Catherine  Ricci,  who  were  canonized,  worshipped  the 
memory  of  the  prior  condemned  to  death  by  their  church. 
Pope  Benedict  XIV.  enrolled  the  reformer  among  other 
righteous  souls  of  his  great  work,  "De  Servorum  Dei 
Beatificatione. " 

The  young  Scotch  or  Irish  girl,  bred  in  the  strictest 
Calvinistic  tenets,  exclaims  on  arrival  at  Florence,  with 
serious  gray  eyes  dilating,  "I  should  like  best  to  visit 
the  places  sacred  to  Savonarola." 

The  old  American  of  Puritan  descent,  journeying  abroad 
in  search  of  health,  feels  the  blood  of  Jonathan  Edwards 
and  Cotton  Mather  stir  in  his  own  veins  in  examining  the 
Bible  treasured  in  the  glass  case  of  the  monk's  cell  in  the 
convent  of  St.  Mark,  with  the  marginal  notes  in  the 
handwriting  of  the  preacher. 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  131 

To  the  Roman  Catholic,  by  whom  the  most  conscientious 
work  of  historian  has  been  done,  from  fellow  Dominican 
to  erudite  Pisan  professor,  Savonarola  is  ever  a  loyal  son 
of  the  Church;  and  his  personality  is  rendered  with  all 
possible  delicacy  of  touch  and  detail  as  well  as  reverence 
of  sentiment,  in  the  refinement  of  the  gentleman,  whose 
food  might  be  of  the  most  frugal  kind,  but  whose  cleanli- 
ness and  purity  of  raiment  and  habit  must  be  that  of  Saint 
Benedict. 

Who  can  fail  to  regret  that  Magliabecchi  did  not  pub- 
lish all  he  knew  concerning  Savonarola  in  the  projected 
volumes,  —  the  first  to  have  contained  the  life  of  the  father 
as  written  by  Pico  della  Mirandola,  the  nephew,  Bur- 
lamacchi,  Razzi,  and  others ;  the  second,  the  apologies  and 
manuscripts ;  the  third,  the  testimony  of  noted  authors  in 
favor  of  the  martyr,  the  exposition  and  refutation  of  his 
adversaries;  and  the  fourth  and  fifth,  the  works  of  the 
great  man  ?  Magliabecchi  did  not  accomplish  the  task. 
The  eccentric  Florentine,  with  his  ardent  love  of  study 
and  prodigious  memory,  died  as  he  had  lived  among  the 
books  which  he  had  hoarded,  perhaps  watched  over  to  the 
end  by  his  friends  the  spiders,  whose  webs  he  never  per- 
mitted to  be  disturbed. 

Savonarola  entered  Florence  by  the  San  Gallo  Gate  in 
the  year  1482.  He  was  born  at  Ferrara,  Sept.  21,  1452, 
of  a  mother  gifted  with  a  powerful  understanding,  and  a 
worthy  citizen  of  a  father.  An  excellent  grandfather 
watched  over  a  sad  childhood  when,  according  to  certain 
chroniclers,  the  boy  escaped  from  the  noisy  sports  of  com- 
panions of  his  own  age  to  erect  little  altars.  He  entered 
a  church  of  the  Augustines  when  visiting  Faenza,  and 
heard  one  of  those  sermons  preached  which  still  possess 
so  powerful  an  influence  on  the  Latin  races  in  their  sus- 
ceptibility to  the  charm  of  eloquent  oration  and  even  mere 
elocution  of  dramatic  and  poetical  declamation.     A  pen- 


132  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

sive  youth,  addicted  to  playing  the  lute  and  musing  apart, 
while  all  Ferrara,  parents  included,  trooped  forth  to  enjoy 
some  holiday,  has  such  coloring  of  romance  as  the  vaguely 
defined  tale  of  loving  a  young  girl  in  a  neighboring  gar- 
den, the  illegitimate  daughter  of  the  Strozzi,  then  in  exile, 
and  of  being  haughtily  repulsed  by  her.  Making  verses, 
playing  on  the  lute,  fascinated  and  repelled  by  the  study 
of  the  Platonian  philosophy,  —  such  would  be  the  natural 
preparation  for  retirement  to  the  cloister  in  that  age. 

Ferrara,  the  courtly  and  luxurious  city,  where  Tasso 
and  Eleanora  d'Este  dwelt  later,  under  the  sway  of  Duke 
Borso  might  give  banquets  in  the  palace;  the  finer  ear 
and  keenly  spiritualized  nature  of  the  boy  Savonarola 
heard  only  the  groans  of  the  prisoners  chained  in  the  dun- 
geons below. 

Pope  Pius  II. ,  having  summoned  a  council  to  be  held  at 
Mantua  to  consider  a  fresh  crusade  of  holy  war  in  1458, 
entered  Ferrara  in  state,  beneath  a  canopy  of  cloth-of-gold, 
while  barges,  magnificently  adorned,  floated  on  the  river. 
Eneas  Silvius  Piccolomini  is  perhaps  the  most  pleasing 
figure  in  the  entire  chain  of  the  papacy.  His  history 
still  glows  fresh  in  the  frescos  of  Pinturricchio  within 
the  precincts  of  the  Duomo  of  his  native  Siena.  All 
Europe  failed  to  appear  at  the  rendezvous  of  Ancona,  the 
day  for  crusades  being  over.  Wise  Cosimo  de'  Medici, 
playing  chess  at  his  villa  in  the  silence  of  gouty  age, 
made  his  comment,  dry,  apt,  and  the  more  forcible  for 
habitual  rarity  of  speech.  The  Pope,  an  old  man,  was 
striving  to  perform  the  exploits  of  youth. 

Savonarola,  apparently  unmoved  by  these  spectacles  of 
pomp  and  splendor,  was  writing,  "  On  a  Disregard  of  the 
World, "  reading  the  works  of  Saint  Thomas  Aquinas  and 
Saint  Dominic,  and  had  begun  to  formulate  the  prayer, 
"  0  Lord,  make  known  to  me  the  way  in  which  I  am  to 
guide  my  soul !  *' 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  133 

Already  he  was  one  of  the  innovators  that  follow  stray 
lights  or  heavenly  beacons,  and  are  deemed  by  their  fel- 
lows sages,  madmen,  martyrs.  Already  he  was  fathoming 
those  shadowy  depths  of  self  for  undeveloped  powers 
from  which  the  majority  of  us  shrink,  as  from  an  unex- 
plored country. 

Then  ensued  the  separation  of  the  family,  that  terrible 
exaction  of  Catholicism  in  a  sad  world.  Savonarola 
quitted  the  paternal  roof,  leaving  a  letter  of  explanation, 
and  sought  the  vocation  of  a  religious  life.  He  went  to 
Bologna,  the  second  city  of  the  papal  States,  where  he 
remained  for  seven  years,  —  seven  years  of  silence  and 
meditation  in  the  rich  town  of  famous  memories,  enshrin- 
ing the  remains  of  Saint  Dominic.  Ascetic  as  an  Egyp- 
tian hermit  in  a  lax  age,  taxing  a  sensitive  frame  by 
unsparing  vigil  and  fasting,  sleeping  on  a  bed  of  sticks, 
studying  the  writings  of  Saint  Augustine,  Cassian,  and, 
above  all,  the  Bible,  committing  the  canonical  books  to 
memory,  —  Savonarola  bore  himself  with  humility  and 
gentleness  to  all  about  him. 

Evil  times  had  fallen  on  Italy,  with  Giuliano  de'  Medici 
smitten  down  in  the  Duomo  at  Florence,  and  his  brother 
Lorenzo  fighting  for  his  life,  at  the  signal  of  the  elevation 
of  the  golden  chalice  of  sacrament  before  the  altar,  the 
Pazzi  as  turbulent  instruments  of  the  deed,  and  Sixtus  lY. 
with  his  son,  Cardinal  Riario,  in  the  background  of  politi- 
cal machinations.  After  the  death  of  good  Pius  II.  a 
succession  of  popes  ruled,  each  more  corrupt  than  his 
predecessor,  to  the  culmination  of  the  Borgia.  Savonarola 
in  the  monastery  of  Bologna  waited  in  silence  and  medi- 
tation, studying  his  Bible  until  the  power  of  speech  should 
come.  "The  strong  man  and  the  waterfall  channel  a 
path  for  themselves,"  says  the  proverb. 

The  monks  of  his  convent  sent  him  to  join  the  com- 
munity of  the  Dominicans  at  Florence,  recognizing  in  him 


134  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

those  austere  virtues  which  they  may  have  lacked.  He 
set  forth  and  crossed  the  pass  so  familiar  to  all  of  us,  from 
the  curving  line  of  railway  through  the  gorges  and  cut- 
tings of  tunnel  in  the  hillside. 

That  solitary  wayfarer  belongs  to  history,  and  is  a  figure 
replete  with  the  deepest  significance  apart  from  all  petty 
tumult  of  his  time.  He  represents  the  awakening  of  the 
soul  of  his  century  and  one  of  the  elements  of  humanity's 
renaissance.  Groping  his  way,  he  could  only  contemplate 
the  career  of  Pope  Sixtus  lY.  and  of  the  Cardinal  Riario, 
who  was  squandering  wealth  in  the  most  lavish  entertain- 
ments at  Rome,  where  he  lodged  Eleanor  of  Arragon, 
daughter  of  the  King  of  Naples,  on  her  way  to  marry  the 
Duke  of  Ferrara,  in  a  palace  built  of  precious  woods  for 
the  occasion. 

"  Oh,  that  I  could  break  those  soaring  wings !  "  Such 
was  the  exalted  thought  of  the  monk  traversing  the  moun- 
tain pass,  as  the  wind  blew  through  the  pine  and  beech 
trees.  Possibly  the  pines  of  those  sylvan  solitudes,  with 
the  sky  for  the  dome  of  a  temple  not  made  with  hands, 
caught  up  then  the  first  whisper  of  the  Reformation, 
"  Oh,  that  I  could  break  those  soaring  wings ! "  meaning 
the  temporal  papal  power. 

Thus  Savonarola  reached  the  City  Gate,  where  we  stand 
on  this  Sunday  of  Lent.  Let  us  follow  his  shade.  We 
aj'e  led  to  the  convent  of  St.   Mark. 

The  day  resembles  the  earthly  career  of  the  reformer. 
It  is  morning  at  San  Marco,  fresh  with  hope  and  promise ; 
a  noontide  ensued  of  fame  and  usefulness  in  the  preaching 
of  the  Duomo,  and  then  came  night  in  the  burning  at  the 
stake  of  the  Piazza  della  Signoria.  Such  was  the  Calvary 
of  pilgrimage  for  Savonarola  in  the  Flower  City. 

A  Sabbath  stillness  broods  over  the  convent  of  St. 
Mark,  where  the  echo  of  civic  and  religious  strife  has  long 
died  away  to  tranquil  repose.     The  first  cloister,  with  the 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  135 

frescoed  walls  and  columned  arcades,  and  grass-plat  in 
the  centre,  is  steeped  in  sunshine.  The  belfry  of  the  ad- 
jacent church,  soaring  toward  a  heaven  of  intense  and 
cloudless  blue,  is  visible  at  an  angle  dear  to  amateurs, 
as  is  the  court  of  the  Bargello. 

St.  Mark  embalms  the  best  specimen  of  the  monastery 
in  the  form  of  a  museum  which  we  are  likely  to  visit.  St. 
Mark,  like  Nature  in  her  recurring  summers  of  vine  and 
blossom,  also  embalms  the  holiness  of  certain  lives, —  great 
men  who  have  created  an  atmosphere  of  their  own  person- 
ality in  the  places  where  they  have  lived.  St.  Mark  is  of 
itself  a  rich  and  lovely  missal,  full  of  hallowed  memories, 
each  page  of  association  illuminated  in  gold  leaf  and  in 
arabesque  designs  of  the  times,  with  angelic  choirs  hover- 
ing on  half-furled  wings,  the  eager  questioning  of  naive 
and  youthful  faces  and  of  venerable  saints  to  the  intruder : 
"Do  you  believe  ?  Are  you  one  of  us  ?  Then  welcome, 
thrice  welcome,  dear  brother,  to  our  mystical  rhapsodies 
of  adoration  and  the  foretaste  we  offer  of  paradise ! " 

No  element  of  pain  and  terror  mars  the  sunshine  of  the 
Lenten  Sunday  here,  for  Fra  Angelico  and  the  good  Saint 
Antonino  dwelt  in  these  cells  before  Savonarola's  stormy 
rule. 

The  guard  turns  the  wheel  to  admit  the  visitor,  and  the 
cloister  echoes  to  the  footsteps  of  the  traveller,  red  guide- 
book in  hand,  or  a  group  of  young  soldiers  with  honest 
brown  faces  and  the  aspect  of  appreciative  intelligence 
and  propriety  noticeable  in  the  Latin  races  in  availing 
themselves  of  the  free  ingress  to  gallery  or  museum. 

The  convent  was  built  by  Silvestrine  monks  of  Yallom- 
brosa  in  the  thirteenth  century.  The  Silvestrines  dwelt 
here  for  a  century,  and  then  after  a  visitation  of  the 
plague,  fell  into  ill-repute.  Cosimo,  the  prudent  Pater 
Patriae,  transferred  a  small  band  of  Dominicans  from  the 
monastery  of  San  Giorgio  at  San  Miniato  to  these  pre- 


136  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

cincts,  and  banished  the  recreant  Silvestrines  to  the  hum- 
bler sanctuary.  To  rebuild  and  embellish  St.  Mark  was  a 
work  of  much  interest  to  the  first  great  Medici  some  years 
before  the  Pitti  Palace  and  the  Boboli  Gardens  were  pro- 
jected. The  library,  which  comprised  the  collection  of 
Niccolo  Niccoli,  was  the  first  public  one  in  Italy.  Fra 
Angelico  and  Fra  Benedetto  were  brought  from  San 
Bomenico  at  Fiesole  to  decorate  chapel,  cloister,  and  dor- 
mitory. The  proud  record  of  St.  Mark  remains  that  it 
was  the  cradle  of  art,  literature,  and  liberty.  From  these 
walls  issued,  later,  the  cry  against  Medicean  tyranny. 

Our  first  welcome  is  given  by  the  gentle  souls,  Fra 
Angelico  and  Saint  Antonino.  The  artist  wrought  those 
shadowy  Christs  and  drooping  Madonnas  with  prayers  and 
tears.  The  saint  strove  to  heal  the  wounds  of  war  and 
pestilence  by  almsgiving  and  the  institution  of  charitable 
works.  Both  remind  us  of  Melanchthon.  Fra  Angelico, 
in  mingling  the  colors  of  his  flagellations  and  pitiful 
crucifixions  still  undimmed  on  the  convent  wall,  must 
have  meditated  on  Melanchthon*s  summary  for  not  regret- 
ting life:  first,  he  would  sin  no  more;  second,  he  would 
be  no  longer  exposed  to  the  fury  and  the  invectives  of 
theologians;  third,  he  would  come  to  the  light;  fourth, 
he  would  see  God ;  fifth,  he  would  contemplate  the  Son 
of  God. 

Luther  might  have  said  of  the  Archbishop  Antonino  as 
of  Melanchthon:  "Magister  Philippus  goes  softly  and 
quietly,  builds  and  plants,  sows  and  waters,  with  joy,  as 
God  has  given  him  his  gifts  richly." 

Stillness  broods  over  the  cloister.  Saint  Peter,  martyr, 
above  the  sacristy  door  places  his  finger  on  his  lip  to 
enjoin  silence,  while  on  the  side  of  the  foresteria,  the 
apartments  devoted  to  hospitality,  a  quaint  and  beautiful 
Christ  as  a  pilgrim  is  welcomed  in  a  touching  manner  by 
two  Dominican  monks. 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  137 

The  traveller  with  the  red  guidebook  and  the  group 
of  young  soldiers  troop  into  the  great  refectory,  where  the 
two  radiant  angels  of  Fra  Bartolommeo's  Providenza  still 
feed  the  brothers  seated  before  an  empty  table.  Thence 
they  gain  the  small  refectory,  with  Ghirlandajo's  Last 
Supper  in  shadow  on  the  mouldy  wall,  or  linger  before 
Fra  Angelico's  Crucifixion  in  the  chapter-house. 

The  passage  to  the  inner  cloister  of  the  novices,  now 
closed  and  with  the  hooded  portrait  of  Savonarola  on  the 
wall,  also  leads  to  the  long  flight  of  steps.  At  the  moment 
a  party  of  strangers  descend, —  a  stout  mother  and  smil- 
ing daughters,  flushed,  excited,  happy  in  the  possession  of 
trumpeting  angels  on  gilded  panels  just  purchased  above. 
These  angels  wing  their  flight  over  the  world.  Florence 
may  be  pardoned  if  disinclined  to  similar  purchase  of 
the  rainbow  shapes  set  in  Gothic  wooden  frames  of  every 
shop-window,  just  as  Neapolitan  ladies  are  averse  to  wear- 
ing pink  coral. 

Stillness  broods  over  the  upper  floor.  The  dark  roof, 
with  the  heavy  beams,  slopes  above  the  long  corridors 
extending  right  and  left,  with  the  twin  rows  of  narrow 
doors.  That  dark  roof  is  suggestive  of  winter  storms,  the 
long  corridors  of  midnight  orisons  and  vigils.  Sombre 
memories  meet  and  overwhelm  the  visitor  at  the  top  of 
the  stairway.  In  a  cell  near  the  landing,  refractory  monks 
were  punished,  as  iron  rings  in  the  masonry  above  the 
stone  bench  attest.  Facing  the  stair  is  the  cell  of  Saint 
Antonino,  before  he  was  created  Archbishop  of  Florence. 
The  rich  vestments  of  the  modest  prelate  are  treasured  in 
a  glass  case.  The  place  contains,  in  addition,  a  cast  of 
his  features  taken  after  death,  a  crayon  portrait  by  Fra 
Bartolommeo,  and  another  of  the  Fra  Lorenzo  Ripa  Fratta, 
who  accompanied  Fra  Angelico  and  his  brother  to  Cor- 
tona,  when  they  assumed  the  Dominican  habit.  Note  the 
genealogical  tree  of  the  monks  of  the  convent :  the  name 


138  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

of  Savonarola  has  been  nearly  obliterated  by  the  kisses 
of  his  followers.  The  daylight  comes  through  the  tiny 
grated  window.  The  fresco  of  the  wall  represents  Christ 
descending  into  Limbo.  Assuredly,  of  all  the  works  of 
the  old  painters  on  the  subject,  this  ranks  first  in  the 
heart,  if  not  in  the  mind  of  the  observer.  Greater  breadth 
of  treatment  and  knowledge  of  modelling  and  color  there 
may  have  been,  yet  Fra  Angelo's  Redeemer  alone  ex- 
presses the  haste  of  a  divine  compassion,  in  the  fullest 
sense,  to  liberate  the  anxious  patriarch  Adam  and  his 
companions  from  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  lesser  pur- 
gatory, while  the  demons  of  death,  resembling  grotesque 
shrimps  and  lizards,  lurk  and  scowl  behind  the  riven 
portal. 

Beyond,  the  reliquary  of  the  Madonna  of  the  Star  from 
the  sacristy  of  Santa  Maria  Novella  sparkles  like  a  jewel 
with  those  kindred  gems  in  the  adjacent  nooks, — the  Coro- 
nation of  the  Virgin  and  the  Annunciation,  the  Predella 
of  each  finished  with  the  delicacy  of  miniatures. 

How  fresh  the  charm  of  a  personal  discovery  of  these 
treasures  within  the  precincts  of  the  old  monastery !  Each 
new-comer  realizes  for  the  moment  the  sentiment  of  a 
Columbus,  and  believes  himself  to  be  the  first  in  an  emo- 
tion of  just  appreciation.  Other  generations  will  visit  the 
spot  in  their  day,  and  experience  similar  delight  in  the 
revelation  of  the  beautiful  as  a  wayside  sacrament.  The 
babies  of  all  lands  now  nestling  in  the  maternal  arms,  as 
the  Madonna  della  Stella  holds  the  infant  Jesus,  will  visit 
this  spot  on  their  wedding  journeys,  and  find  the  sunny 
cloister  unchanged,  the  lapse  of  years  marked  by  the  noise- 
less passage  of  cloud  shadows  on  the  dial. 

The  link  of  fresco  extends  through  all  that  chain  of  tiny 
cells  along  the  corridor, —  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  with 
Judas  wearing  a  black  halo,  as  the  symbol  of  a  dead 
virtue,  after  the  Greek  usage;  watchful  Magdalenes;  and 


BY  THE   CITY  GATE.  139 

the  lily  of  motherhood, —  the  White  Madonna,  — bending 
to  be  crowned  by  her  Son  amid  the  clouds. 

The  last  cell,  adjoining  the  church,  with  the  inner 
chamber  approached  by  steps,  was  built  by  the  munificent 
patron,  Cosimo  the  Elder,  as  a  retreat  for  himself  when 
he  wished  to  converse  with  Saint  Antonino  and  Fra  An- 
gelico.  When  Pope  Eugenius  TV.  consecrated  the  church 
in  1432,  he  was  lodged  here. 

On  the  other  side  the  line  of  cells  is  broken  by  the  lofty 
hall  hung  with  the  silken  banners  used  in  the  festivities 
of  Dante's  centenary  and  the  erection  of  his  statue  in  the 
Square  of  Santa  Croce. 

The  library  whither  Savonarola  is  reputed  to  have 
withdrawn,  carrying  the  Host,  when  the  convent  was  at- 
tacked by  the  mob,  makes  a  second  break  in  the  continuity 
of  corridor.  The  library  is  rich  and  impressive  in  aspect, 
despite  the  empty  shelves.  The  central  desk  contains  the 
illuminated  choir-books,  precious  tomes  gathered  from  the 
Badia,  the  Carmine,  and  Monte  Oliveto.  Whole  wreaths 
of  children  still  troop  laughing  across  the  pages,  delineated 
by  the  brush  of  Fra  Eustachio,  while  the  delicate  hues  of 
Plautilla  Nelli  and  her  sister,  the  nuns  of  St.  Catherine, 
remain  undimmed.  The  wedding  gift  of  the  Grand -duke 
Leopold  II.  to  his  bride,  Maria  Antoinetta,  in  the  form 
of  a  missal,  illuminated  by  Fra  Angelico,  finds  a  place  of 
honor  among  the  choir-books. 

This  room  was  once  damaged  by  an  earthquake,  a  most 
unpleasant  suggestion  at  this  date.  Savonarola  again 
claims  the  visitor  at  the  extremity  of  the  second  long  cor- 
ridor. The  two  chambers  gained  by  the  outer  chapel 
belong  not  to  San  Marco,  but  to  all  history,  in  the  emanci- 
pation of  the  human  mind  from  the  tyranny  of  terrible 
evil. 

In  the  chapel  the  tablet  opposite  the  door  records  that 
Leo  X.,  after  visiting  the  place  in  1516,  granted  an  indul- 


140  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

gence  of  ten  years  to  those  who  prayed  in  the  inner  cell. 
The  frescos  of  the  Madonna  and  Child,  by  Fra  Bartolom- 
meo,  are  attached  to  the  wall.  Two  busts  in  terra-cotta 
of  Savonarola  and  Girolamo  Benivieni,  by  Girolamo 
Bastiniani,  the  modern  Florentine  sculptor,  whose  imita- 
tion of  the  cinque-cento  work  has  deceived  connoisseurs, 
are  placed  on  pedestals  and  attract  the  eye  by  their  singu- 
lar fidelity  to  line  and  wrinkle  of  the  human  countenance. 

Within  is  the  shrine  of  pilgrimage, —  the  two  tiny  cells 
of  the  prior  of  St.  Mark.  The  desk  contains  the  copies  of 
sermons,  with  marginal  notes  in  a  microscopic  handwrit- 
ing ;  the  worn  wooden  crucifix  is  placed  near  the  window. 
In  a  case  such  relics  are  treasured  as  rosary,  hair  shirt,  a 
fragment  of  wood  from  the  burning  stake.  On  the  wall  of 
the  inner  cell  hangs  the  quaint  old  picture  of  the  execu- 
tion on  the  Piazza  Signoria,  with  the  two  angels  unrolling 
above  the  blank  scroll  on  which  posterity  should  inscribe 
a  verdict  of  the  cruel  scene. 

We  do  not  accept  Pope  Leo's  absolution  by  praying  on  the 
spot ;  we  do  not  worship  the  relics  collected  here  as  hav- 
ing worked  miracles ;  but  we  uncover  the  head,  touch  the 
wall,  the  small,  grated  casement,  inspired  by  a  sentiment 
of  profound  reverence  for  a  great  and  noble  memory. 
From  these  narrow  precincts,  this  threshold,  "  Savonarola's 
soul  went  out  in  fire." 

Arrived  by  the  city  gate  on  that  first  journey,  Florence 
received  him  coldly, —  did  not,  in  fact,  notice  the  monk  at 
all.  Towns  are  apt  to  entertain  their  angels  unawares. 
Long  years  of  waiting  must  elapse  before  Savonarola 
gained  a  hearing  in  the  Duomo. 

The  Florence  of  that  day  presents  the  most  familiar 
phase  of  poetical  splendor  on  which  historian,  philoso- 
pher, and  dilettante  still  delight  to  dwell.  We  treasure  it 
like  some  rare  work  of  art,  preserved  in  the  case  of  a 
museum,  admiring  the  fair  proportions  of  this  model  of 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  141 

a  State  in  miniature,  marvelling  at  the  contrast  with  the 
rude  manners  and  defective  education  of  the  remainder  of 
Europe.  Lorenzo's  Florence  resembles  Orcagna's  Taber- 
nacle, with  richest  play  of  fancy  in  the  harmonious  blend- 
ing of  statuette,  bas-relief,  bust,  and  intaglio,  and  greatest 
refinement  of  architectural  perfection  in  the  welding  to- 
gether of  marble,  pietra-dura,  mosaic,  enamel,  and  gilded 
glass.  The  massive  grandeur  of  Trajan's  column,  as 
emblematic  of  Roman  history  in  stone,  has  quite  another 
aspect. 

Lorenzo  the  Magnificent  had  secured  the  common- 
wealth to  himself,  converting  an  inheritance  of  glass  into 
iron,  to  quote  the  verdict  of  Ludovico  Sforza.  The  ac- 
complished man  of  the  world  moves  our  speculative  ad- 
miration, whether  in  the  athletic  sports  of  a  robust  youth, 
capable  of  drawing  sword  in  self-defence,  the  poetizing 
and  philosophizing  mood  of  summer  evenings  on  the  ter- 
race or  in  the  loggia  of  a  favorite  villa,  surrounded  by 
courtiers  and  scholars,  or  the  aspect  of  the  statesman, 
subtle,  prudent,  sagacious  above  his  fellows.  He  was  the 
chief  architect  of  that  temple  preserved  for  our  leisurely 
inspection  by  the  crystal  case  of  history,  albeit  the  foun- 
dations had  long  been  prepared  for  him.  The  man  of  the 
world  had  the  personal  disadvantage  of  harsh  features,  a 
swarthy  skin,  and  a  nasal  voice.  He  punished  his  ene- 
mies with  severity,  is  accused  of  a  certain  coldness  of 
heart  even  to  his  friends,  and  unscrupulously  appropri- 
ated the  funds  of  dowerless  girls  to  his  own  ends.  The 
strong  must  win,  and  the  weak  go  to  the  wall.  How 
else  would  the  Medici  have  proved  himself  a  worldling  ? 
Nevertheless  he  is  a  superb  figure;  and  the  welcome 
extended  to  each  of  us,  in  our  time,  is  that  of  Lorenzo 
the  Magnificent,  whose  urbanity  and  courtesy  we  might  do 
well  to  emulate.  The  glamour  of  a  rich  individuality  is 
thrown  over  our  sober  senses  even  at  this  distance  oi  data 


142  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

How  varied  the  phases  of  his  character  and  his  rule! 
Orsini,  under  the  direction  of  Andrea  Verrocchio,  mod- 
elled three  life-size  figures  in  wax  of  the  prince  for 
churches,  in  the  dress  worn  when  he  appeared  at  the  palace 
window  after  escape  from  the  Pazzi  conspiracy.  Antonio 
Pollajuolo  struck  a  medal  of  the  ancient  choir  of  Santa 
Reparata  and  the  assassination  of  Giuliano.  Once  Pope 
Sixtus  IV.  had  spared  his  neck,  he  showed  himself  a  true 
descendant  of  Salvestro,  gonfaloniere  of  the  town  in  1370, 
and  of  Cosimo,  Pater  Patriae,  in  his  prudent  relations 
with  such  neighbors  as  the  Baglioni  of  Perugia,  the 
Vitelli  of  Castello,  the  Bentivoglio  of  Bologna,  the  Man- 
fredi  of  Faenza.  At  the  same  moment  he  lulled  Florence 
to  sleep  in  false  security  by  sacrificing  to  the  muses,  reviv- 
ing the  games,  the  carnival  pageants,  composing  sonnets, 
jeux  d^ esprit,  and  sharing  the  feasting  of  gay  cavaliers. 
He  touched  his  lyre  and  sang  of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne: 
"  How  beautiful  is  youth !  " 

Endowed  with  a  subtile  and  penetrating  perception  of  all 
things,  and  possessing  the  supremely  refined  taste  of  the 
most  refined  of  capitals,  Lorenzo  still  charms  and  surprises 
us  by  the  ease  with  which  he  passed  from  collecting  gems, 
intaglios,  and  medals,  in  the  Riccardi  Palace,  to  theologi- 
cal discussion,  the  opening  of  a  Platonic  academy,  the 
criticism  of  antique  statuary,  the  arrangement  of  the  gar- 
dens of  San  Marco  as  a  school  of  art,  where  he  mingled 
with  the  pupils,  the  consideration  of  the  science  of  medi- 
cine, metaphysics,  the  practice  and  theory  of  music,  or 
the  inspection  of  the  clock  made  for  him  by  Lorenzo  da 
Volpaja,  which  marked  the  hour  of  the  day,  the  motion  of 
the  sun  and  planets,  eclipses,  signs  of  the  zodiac,  and 
revolutions  of  the  heavens.  Latin  and  Greek  were  sedu- 
lously cultivated,  as  French  was  made  the  court  language 
of  Russia  under  Catherine  the  Great,  but  the  Italian 
tongue  was  not  suffered  to  decline.    Add  to  these  interests 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  143 

war  to  maintain  the  boundaries  of  domain,  and  delicate, 
diplomatic  missions  to  Naples  and  Rome,  with  the  ulti- 
mate end  in  view  of  the  marriage  of  a  daughter  in  the 
family  of  a  new  pope,  and  the  firmness  of  the  muscles  be- 
neath the  silken  glove  is  apparent. 

Then  the  chameleon  spirit  of  Lorenzo  flitted  to  the 
country  to  beautify  his  villa  at  Poggio  a  Cajano  with 
woods  and  sparkling  waters,  fish  and  game,  and  watch  the 
growth  of  rare  plants.  In  the  tranquillity  of  such  retreats, 
apart  from  the  tumult  of  the  city,  politics,  and  the  throng  of 
the  market-place,  the  ruler  could  compose  "  Nencia  da  Bar- 
berino, "  —  an  idyl  redolent  of  the  Tuscan  soil,  people,  and 
manners,  —  and  the  "  Rispetti, "  still  sung  on  the  Pistojan 
hills,  as  far  as  the  Maremma  and  the  Campagna ;  the  cares 
of  the  shepherd  Corinto,  which  resembles  the  eclogues  of 
the  ancients ;  the  mythological  scene  of  Ambra ;  and  the 
spirited  poem  of  the  "  Hawking  Party  "  {La  Caccia  con 
Falcone).  The  cynicism  underlying  even  the  "  Lays  of  Car- 
nival," and  the  epicureanism  of  the  "Canzone  a  Ballo," 
have  a  counterpoise  in  the  spiritual  songs,  rivalling  those 
of  his  gifted  mother,  the  aspiration  of  a  soul  dissatisfied 
with  glory,  splendor,  and  the  wealth  of  this  world. 

Supple,  adroit,  keenly  observant  of  his  own  horizon, 
and  cold  of  heart,  he  must  rule  or  succumb  to  rivals. 
Such  was  the  mediaeval  game  of  chance  for  prince  and 
citizen. 

The  palaces  and  villas  of  the  Strozzi,  Soderini,  Accia- 
juoli,  Sassetti,  Valori,  Alessandri,  and  Pandolfini  rivalled 
the  habitations  of  the  Medici  in  sculpture  and  painting, 
while  the  bric-a-brac  merchants  of  that  day  were  travel- 
ling antiquarians,  in  search  of  rare  manuscripts  and  ob- 
jects of  art.  Antiquities  came  from  Rome,  Naples,  or 
Viterbo,  the  vases  from  Greece,  the  precious  parchments 
from  Constantinople. 

The  court  of  each  little  prince  strove  to  eclipse  others 


144  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

in  the  cultivation  of  art,  science,  and  letters.  Milan  pos- 
sessed Filelfo ;  Modena,  Jean  Aurispa ;  Rome,  Platina  and 
Jacques  Ammanati ;  while  Florence  could  boast  of  Ficino, 
Politian,  or  Ambrose  Traversa.  Cecco  Simonetta  was  the 
minister  of  Francesco  Sforza,  Antonio  Beccadelli  coun- 
sellor of  the  King  of  Naples,  Leonardo  Aretino,  Poggio 
Bracciolini,  and,  later,  Macchiavelli,  secretaries  of  the 
Florentine  Republic. 

How  they  glow,  untarnished  by  the  lapse  of  centuries, 
the  cities  where  the  traveller  loves  to  linger  in  contem- 
plation of  their  marbles,  frescos,  and  varied  architecture, 
yet  all  domed  by  the  blue  sky  which  may  signify  united 
Italy !  How  they  formerly  hated  one  another,  without  a 
thought  of  common  patriotism,  ever  ready  to  clamor  for 
foreign  aid  across  the  Alpine  barrier,  so  that  French  king 
or  German  emperor  might  bring  fire  and  sword  to  the 
whole  country  in  settlement  of  petty  dispute  between 
blacks  and  whites,  Montagu  and  Capulet,  Maltraversi  and 
Sacchese,  Torriani  and  Yisconti,  Orsini  and  Colonna. 

Savonarola  must  have  perceived  with  keenest  sense  of 
appreciation  the  beauty  of  the  Athens  of  the  Arno,  the 
polished  ease  of  the  scholars  in  a  community  where  women 
eagerly  cultivated  letters,  and  already  the  raillery  of  a 
prevailing  scepticism  was  in  the  very  atmosphere.  Pro- 
foundly studious  himself,  and  able  to  assimilate  such 
mental  food  in  subsequent  meditation,  the  brilliant  sur- 
face of  a  mobile  society  did  not  deceive  him.  The.  men 
attached  to  the  reigning  house  by  Lorenzo  and  his  prede- 
cessors—  Marsilio  Ficino,  Cristoforo  Landino,  and  Poli- 
tian —  would  have  a  strong  claim  on  Savonarola  as  well, 
and  the  latter  subsequently  submitted  to  the  Dominican 
influence. 

Marsilio  Ficino,  canon  of  St.  Lorenzo,  the  unwearied 
follower  of  Aristotle,  Plato,  Confucius,  Zoroaster,  a  deli- 
cate   personality,    full    of   mysticism,    with  the    modest 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  145 

requirements  of  the  philosopher  fond  of  retiring  to  a  small 
country  property,  was  accused  of  burning  a  lamp  before 
the  bust  of  Plato,  and  even  of  dabbling  in  magic  and 
astrology.  Educated  as  a  physician,  his  faith  in  the  efl&cacy 
of  vipers'  teeth,  or  the  claws  of  a  lion,  was  only  equalled 
by  that  in  the  virtue  of  agates  and  topazes,  while  the 
influence  of  the  planet  Saturn  on  his  destiny  induced  an 
habitual  melancholy.  What  marvel  that  simple  Calen- 
drino  believed  the  heliotrope  stone  would  render  the  pos- 
sessor invisible  ?  Are  there  not  Americans  now  living 
who  have  carried  a  horse-chestnut  in  the  pocket,  the  fetich 
to  preserve  from  rheumatism  ? 

Ficino,  a  century  earlier,  cleared  the  path  for  Giordano 
Bruno,  who  broke  through  all  servile  tradition  of  school, 
and  forced  a  way  into  a  wider  expanse  of  science. 

The  chief  claim  of  Cristoforo  Landino  on  posterity  is 
his  revival  of  the  study  of  Dante.  Politian,  the  poet, 
courtier,  and  tutor  of  Lorenzo's  children,  could  affirm 
amid  many  backsli dings,  "  Nature  and  youth  drew  me  to 
Homer,  and  with  all  the  zeal  of  which  I  was  capable  I 
set  myself  to  translate  him  into  Latin  verse." 

Florence  was  more  Greek  than  any  other  spot  save 
Athens;  and  the  influence  of  Chalcondylas  and  Johann 
Lascaris  was  permeating  all  classes.  Germans,  English, 
and  Portuguese  flocked  here  to  learn  Greek,  as  students 
formerly  sought  Athens.  Alexander  Farnese  acquired  a 
taste  for  classical  literature  at  Florence  which  the  old 
Pope  Paul  III.  had  not  forgotten. 

Statutes  of  codes  of  law  became  established  since  Taddeo 
Accorso  had  formulated  them;  mariners  navigated  by 
means  of  the  stars;  medical  men  followed  Alderotti  to 
Bologna,  the  seat  of  learning ;  mathematics  and  astronomy 
were  developed.  Pisa  was  more  advanced.  Leonardo 
Fibonacci,  son  of  the  agent  of  the  Pisan  Republic  at 
Bugia,  on  the  Barbary  coast,  studied  algebra,  and  intro- 

10 


146  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

duced  the  use  of  Arabic  numerals.  In  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury the  ProveuQal  tongue  began  to  decline  before  the 
Italian ;  and  a  new  language  of  music,  chivalry,  and  love 
awakened  the  lyre  of  the  different  cities,  flashes  of  poetry 
having  been  traceable  to  Farinata  degli  Uberti,  or  Fra 
Guittone  d'Arezzo,  the  inventor  of  the  sonnet. 

"  To  the  Florentine  mind  nought  is  arduous, "  said  the 
goldsmith,  Bernardo  Cennini,  who  cut  and  set  the  first 
type  for  printing. 

"Nobody  believes  longer  in  Christ,"  lamented -Girolamo 
Benivieni,  composer  of  pious  laud  and  canticle. 

In  a  later  age  Giordano  Bruno  affirmed,  "  The  highest 
contemplation  which  transcends  nature  is  impossible  and 
null  to  him  who  is  without  belief. '^ 

Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  with  his  varied  powers  of 
intellect  and  classical  proclivities,  might  skilfully  poise 
his  boat  of  pleasure  on  the  brink  of  the  cataract,  but  as 
regards  the  downward  plunge  of  his  subjects  historians 
agree :  "  The  Florentines  made  all  tend  to  a  life  of  effemi- 
nacy and  idleness,  trampled  on  the  traditions  of  their 
ancestors,  and,  by  unbounded  license,  were  following  the 
road  to  shameful  vices  and  corruption.  Their  fathers,  by 
force  of  work,  virtues,  probity,  and  abstinence,  had  raised 
the  State,  while  the  descendants  gave  themselves  up  to 
wine,  gambling,  and  debauch."  Savonarola  would  be 
prepared  to  ascribe  to  the  Florentine,  as  Epictetus  had 
done  to  the  Roman  orator,  silver  vessels  of  argument,  but 
earthenware  reasons,  principles,   and  appetites. 

The  new-comer  was  well  received  at  St.  Mark's,  where 
a  reputation  for  holiness  had  preceded  him.  The  Domini- 
can order  set  a  just  value  on  preachers.  The  prior  of  St. 
Mark  bade  Savonarola  preach  in  the  Church  of  San 
Lorenzo.  He  made  the  attempt  and  failed.  A  few  lis- 
teners could  not  restrain  their  weariness  of  inattention. 
The   intonations  were  false,   the  style   heavy,   the  voice 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  147 

feeble  of  one  destined  to  become  the  greatest  of  Lenten 
preachers  among  the  Latin  races.  How  curious  the  fact ! 
How  stimulating  to  all  humble  and  personal  effort  in 
every  walk  of  life  is  the  thought  of  that  inattentive  audi- 
ence of  twenty-fiVe  persons,  while  the  town  flocked  to  the 
Church  of  Santo  Spirito  to  hear  the  popular  Augustinian, 
Fra  Marianno  da  Gennazzano,  whose  graceful  ease  of  bear- 
ing had  attracted  the  admiration  of  Politian. 

Apart  from  the  severe  judgment  of  the  partisans  of 
Savonarola,  Fra  Gennazzano  is  described  as  a  man  small  of 
stature,  with  a  melodious  voice,  and  a  suave  manner, — one 
of  the  court  preachers  who  steered  adroitly  around  diffi- 
culties as  worldly  clergymen  still  do. 

The  prior  shook  his  head,  and  despatched  Savonarola  to 
San  Germignano  for  two  seasons.  Clearly  he  would  not 
do  for  the  fastidious  and  cultured  capital.  Savonarola 
departed  in  silence  by  the  city  gate,  casting  no  shadow  on 
the  bright  streets.  In  1244  the  bold  and  fiery  Dominican, 
Peter  Martyr,  had  emerged  from  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
grasping  a  banner  and  a  red  cross,  to  rout  the  protesting 
sect  of  the  Paterini,  who  denied  the  efficacy  of  the  Eucha- 
rist, the  baptismal  rite,  prayer  and  almsgiving  for  the 
dead.  The  Croce  al  Trebbio  and  the  Piazza  of  Santa 
Felicity  were  the  scenes  of  street  squabbles. 

Savonarola  made  no  such  crusade.  He  departed  as  he 
had  come,  noiselessly,  and  in  humble  obedience  to  rule. 
He  went  to  Lombardy,  Padua,  and  Bologna.  His  followers 
have  woven  countless  legends  about  him  in  their  chronicles. 

At  Brescia  he  prophesied  the  visitation  of  fire  and  sword 
as  a  judgment  of  Heaven,  in  1486,  which  actually  befell 
the  town  two  years  after  his  own  death,  to  the  triumph 
of  his  disciples.  A  lady  wrote  him  a  letter  foretelling 
the  doom  which  awaited  him.  Savonarola  thrust  the 
missive  into  the  fire,  pronouncing  it  an  emanation  of  the 
Devil. 


148  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

He  rebuked  the  violence  and  profanity  of  the  band  of 
soldiers  travelling  with  him  in  the  boat  on  the  Po,  and 
they  sought  his  feet  for  conversion. 

Fra  Angelico  de  Brescia  saw  the  head  of  Savonarola 
surrounded  by  a  glory  at  Christmas  time, 'when  the  latter 
was  absorbed  in  a  trance  of  ecstatic  devotion,  and  tasted 
the  mysticism  of  his  faith ;  beholding  Christ  on  the  cross, 
he  longed  to  share  the  sufferings  of  the  Redeemer,  and  be 
pierced  with  the  same  nails. 

Amid  the  tangled  thread  of  vision  and  tradition,  the 
fact  exists  that  Savonarola  was  present  at  the  provincial 
chapter  of  the  order  of  Saint  Dominic  in  Lombardy,  held 
at  Reggio,  in  1486.  Pietro  de  Bergamo,  author  of  the 
learned  table  of  works  of  Saint  Thomas,  and  Louis  of 
Ferrara,  who  was  made,  later,  procurator,  were  of  the 
conclave.  Savonarola  became  speedily  prominent  for  the 
precision  of  his  replies  and  the  profundity  of  his  medita- 
tion. Such  a  theological  light  could  no  longer  remain 
hidden  under  a  bushel. 

Interest  in  these  debates  drew  to  Reggio  the  famous 
Pico  della  Mirandola,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  figures  in 
the  wonderfully  rich  tapestry  of  Italian  life  of  the  period. 
Politian  described  him  thus:  "Nature  appeared  to  have 
showered  on  this  man,  or  rather  this  hero,  all  the  gifts  of 
body  and  mind.  He  was  slender  and  well  made,  and 
something  divine  seemed  to  shine  from  his  face.  He  was 
acute  in  perception,  gifted  with  an  excellent  memory,  in- 
defatigable in  study,  clear  and  eloquent  in  expression. 
One  doubted  whether  he  shone  most  by  his  talents  or  his 
moral  qualities.  Versed  in  every  branch  of  philosophy, 
favored  by  a  perfect  knowledge  of  several  languages,  he 
showed  himself  sublime  and  above  all  praise." 

The  young  court  gentleman,  amiable  and  winning,  the 
splendid  prince,  accomplished  in  all  the  acquirements  of 
his  day,   and  esteemed  learned  in   Greek  and  Latin  by 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  149 

admiring  contemporaries,  who  believed  he  had  found  the 
root  of  all  faith  in  the  Cabala,  was  attracted  by  Savona- 
rola as  the  flame  is  drawn  toward  the  fire.  The  innate 
virtue  of  Pico's  soul  is  here  revealed.  He  besought  his 
friend  Lorenzo  to  have  so  learned  and  holy  a  monk  recalled 
to  St.  Mark,  for  the  benefit  of  Florence,  rather  than  that  a 
superior  intelligence  should  be  lost  in  the  obscure  cloisters 
of  Lombardy.  The  allegiance  of  the  charming  courtier 
to  the  stern  reformer  never  wavered,  and  he  was  meditat- 
ing assuming  the  monk's  robe  when  he  died. 

"Almost  thou  persuadest  me  to  become  a  Christian," 
said  this  later  Agrippa. 

Pico  della  Mirandola  was  buried  in  the  Church  of  St. 
Mark,  in  the  shadow  of  the  monastery  where  he  would 
have  fain  dwelt  in  old  age. 

The  recall  of  Savonarola  to  Florence  was  made  by 
Lorenzo  as  an  act  of  courtesy  to  his  friend.  Probably  he 
had  never  before  heard  of  the  monk. 

In  July,  1489,  Savonarola  was  at  Bologna,  and  at 
Christmas  again  at  Brescia;  in  January,  1490,  at  Pavia; 
in  the  ensuing  February  and  March,  at  Genoa.  His  face 
was  then  turned  once  more  to  Florence.  He  came  on  foot, 
and  his  strength  failed  him  among  the  pine  and  beech 
trees  of  the  Bologna  Pass,  when  a  mysterious  stranger 
refreshed  and  strengthened  the  pilgrim,  vanishing  at  the 
*  city  gate  of  San  Gallo,  where  the  Nut  Fair  of  the  Lenten 
Sunday  is  being  held  to-day,  and  the  monks  still  receive 
Christ  as  a  wayfarer,  in  the  fresco  above  the  door  of  the 
convent. 

Savonarola  quietly  resumed  his  duties  of  reader  and  in- 
structor of  the  novices.  The  power  of  the  man  had  grown ; 
the  brotherhood  of  St.  Mark  and  the  city  beyond  were 
ready  to  listen  to  him.  He  need  no  longer  pray  to  be 
shown  the  way  in  which  to  direct  his  soul,  because  the 
path  was  open  before  him. 


150  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

It  is  at  this  point  in  his  career  that  succeeding  genera- 
tions have  ample  food  for  speculation.  What  if  Pico  della 
Mirandola  had  not  been  subjected  to  the  magnetic  influ- 
ence of  a  strange  and  vivid  personality  at  Reggio,  and 
petitioned  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent  to  have  Savonarola 
recalled  to  St.  Mark  ?  The  monk  might  have  been  sent 
instead  to  Pavia  or  Brescia.  At  Milan  he  would  have 
preached  reform,  but  have  been  powerless  to  produce  a 
political  revolution,  and  his  voice  have  died  away  to 
silence  beneath  the  vaults  of  a  lofty  temple.  His  bold- 
ness and  energy  in  denouncing  a  state  of  unexampled 
corruption  at  Rome  would  have  speedily  doomed  him  to 
the  dungeons  of  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo.  Naples  was  too 
careless  to  heed  his  warnings.  Only  Florence,  where 
"the  air  engendered  subtle  brains,"  would  have  proved 
susceptible  to  his  influence.  Prosaically  considered,  as 
a  mortal,  Savonarola  might  have  lived  in  obscurity  and 
died  in  his  bed,  but  for  the  intervention  of  Pico  della 
Mirandola.  Morally  weighed,  as  an  instrument  of  des- 
tiny, great  fame,  sorrows,  calumny,  persecution,  and  the 
stake  were  ordained  as  his  portion  from  the  first. 

His  lessons  to  the  novices  brought  so  many  hearers  that 
he  descended  to  the  garden,  and  stood  near  the  Persian 
rose-tree  at  the  entrance  of  a  small  chapel.  He  was  ap- 
pointed prior,  and  the  church  became  crowded  to  listen  to 
his  words.  We  are  told  that  his  first  measure  was  to  urge 
a  withdrawal  of  the  community  to  Monte  Cane  above  the 
Villa  Careggi,  and  the  erection  of  a  monastery  there  of 
roughest  stone  and  simplest  woodwork,  much  as  Saint 
John  Gualberto  had  withdrawn  to  Vallombrosa  centuries 
earlier.  The  older  brethren  opposing  the  plan,  Savona- 
rola yielded  and  began  to  institute  reforms  within  the 
existing  boundaries  of  San  Marco.  His  personal  activity 
was  untiring.  He  slept  only  four  hours.  He  reflected 
much  on  death,  and  often  kept  a  little  ivory  skull  in  his 


BY  THE   CITY  GATE.  151 

hands.  Anticipating  a  violent  end,  he  carried  a  crucifix 
about  with  him.  Tenderness  characterized  his  care  of  the 
novices.  He  found  leisure  to  take  them  to  retired  spots, 
where,  after  dinner,  he  talked  about  God,  the  divine 
writings,  the  surrounding  plants  and  birds.  He  made 
them  dance  in  conformity  with  the  joyous  instincts  of  the 
age,  and  sing  lauds.  He  selected  the  most  youthful  mem- 
ber of  the  band,  placed  him  in  the  midst,  and  had  him 
saluted  as  the  infant  Jesus  by  the  company,  with  excla- 
mations of  rapturous  homage.  The  fervid.  Southern  nature 
of  Savonarola  had  naturally  found  expression  in  poetry, 
the  verse  embodying  lamentations  over  the  degeneracy  of 
the  Church,  and  decked  with  all  the  jewels  of  symbolism, 
while  lacking  the  purity  and  flow  of  Petrarch's  melody. 
He  established  a  school  of  Oriental  languages  in  the 
monastery  for  the  study  of  Greek,  Hebrew,  Turkish, 
Moresco,  and  Chaldean,  and  invited  lay  pupils  to  enter. 

A  picturesque  element  would  be  lacking  if  full  credence 
should  be  withheld  as  to  Savonarola's  intercourse  with 
Lorenzo.  The  benefactor  walked  in  the  garden,  and  the 
new  prior  refused  to  render  unto  Caesar  the  things  that  are 
Caesar's  by  courteously  welcoming  him.  Lorenzo,  no 
doubt  amused  and  puzzled  by  such  hauteur,  put  money  in 
the  alms-box,  and  Savonarola  divided  the  sum  scrupu- 
lously, giving  the  gold  to  the  good  men  of  San  Martino, 
and  retaining  the  silver  alone  for  convent  use. 

What  a  thrilling  interest  the  visit  of  the  traveller  to  the 
Villa  Careggi  would  lose,  deprived  of  the  scene  of  Savon- 
arola standing  beside  the  death-bed  of  Lorenzo,  and 
withholding  absolution  until  restitution  of  the  dowers  of 
the  robbed  maidens,  the  sacking  of  Volterra,  and  the 
liberty  of  Florence  was  made,  and  the  Medici  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall  instead !  Politian  states  that  the  parting 
was  amicable,  the  reconciliation  complete,  and  Savonarola 
gave  his  blessing. 


152  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  light  of  history  is  not  required  to  behold  the  Mag- 
nificent dying  at  Villa  Careggi,  with  the  long  corridors 
hushed,  the  loggia  deserted,  the  flowers  fading  on  the 
garden  terraces,  and  the  sweep  of  hill  and  valley  visible 
from  the  parapet,  with  the  beautiful  city  in  the  distance. 
The  man  of  the  world,  who  had  tasted  of  all  experiences 
with  epicurean  discrimination,  stricken  by  pain  and  dis- 
ease, found  his  pleasures  crumble  to  ashes,  his  cynicism 
empty,  and  asked  for  Savonarola. 

"I  know  no  honest  friar  but  he."  These  words  come 
down  to  us  through  the  years,  with  the  scent  of  the  rose 
petals  shed  on  the  path,  and  the  shadow  of  the  trees  of 
the  old  Medici  villa  still  sacred  to  them. 

An  element  of  the  Renaissance,  could  Lorenzo  divine 
that  his  part  in  it  would  consist  less  in  the  embellishment 
of  a  small  capital  than  as  unconsciously  connected  with  the 
invention  of  printing  and  the  discovery  of  a  new  world  ? 

"Le  Moyen-Age  a  un  double  aspect:  de  naivetd  et  de 
recherche,  d'asc^tisme  et  de  violence."  The  portraits  of 
Lorenzo  and  Savonarola  thus  form  a  contrast. 

The  noonday  had  come  in  the  career  of  the  prior  of  St. 
Mark.  From  the  church  and  garden  he  was  transferred 
to  the  Duomo  in  the  Lent  of  1491.  The  term  of  his 
preaching  extended  over  a  period  of  eight  years.  At  last 
his  soul  had  found  utterance  in  speech.  He  believed  in 
his  mission  and  in  himself.  The  power  of  the  reformer, 
imbued  with  the  ire  of  indignation,  conquered  all  trivial 
defects  of  manner.  Original,  bold,  full  of  fire,  he  thrilled 
an  impressionable  audience  with  his  own  intense,  consum- 
ing conviction.  The  renovation  of  the  Church  must  be 
Immediate.  The  scourging  of  Italy  was  about  to  come 
to  pass.  Fear,  apprehension,  doubt,  assailed  his  hearers. 
Had  we  been  of  that  company  gathered  in  the  vast  Cathe- 
dral, should  we  not  also  have  listened  spell-bound,  wonder- 
ing what  was  about  to  happen  to  Italy  and  to  Florence  ? 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  153 

His  words  were  full  of  life.  Look,  gesture,  voice,  became 
instinct  with  kindling  passion.  He  yielded  to  all  sensa- 
tions himself.  He  wept  warm  tears ;  he  laughed ;  he  knelt 
at  the  mention  of  God,  then  swiftly  rose  to  his  feet  to  men- 
ace all  unbelievers  with  clenched  hand.  On  one  occasion, 
in  the  midst  of  an  harangue  against  the  backslidings  of  the 
age,  indignation  checked  his  utterance,  and  he  quitted  the 
pulpit  abruptly,  thus  leaving  an  impression  more  deep  than 
words. 

He  depicted  the  mysteries  of  the  Apocalypse.  The  Ark 
of  Noah  was  made  to  float  once  more  on  the  troubled 
waters  of  a  second  deluge,  with  attendant  separation  of 
clean  and  unclean  inmates.  Doom  hung  above  the  Church, 
the  town,  the  land.  What  wonder  that  the  multitude 
began  to  sway  before  the  gathering  storm  of  a  religious 
revival  ? 

Savonarola  upbraided  his  audience  for  their  luxury, 
covetousness,  and  usury.  His  maledictions  might  have 
blasted  all  Italy.  He  wished  to  cauterize  the  lips  and 
tongue  of  the  blasphemer,  as  Saint  Louis  of  France  had 
caused  such  offenders  to  be  burned  with  hot  irons.  The 
sin  of  gambling  had  a  firm  hold  on  the  commonwealth, 
threatening  the  ruin  of  families.  His  rebuke,  breathing 
of  the  cloister,  induces  a  smile  even  now.  He  dealt  thus 
with  the  most  devouring  of  passions, — that  of  loss  and 
gain,  "  If  you  wish  to  amuse  yourselves,  draw  a  bow,  play 
with  bones,  stake  a  salad,  a  vegetable. "  The  Signory  was 
recommended  to  use  torture  for  the  worst  gamblers,  and 
servants  were  urged  to  spy  upon  and  denounce  the  pecca- 
dilloes of  their  masters. 

One  who  was  destined  to  suffer  death  in  a  strange  and 
terrible  fashion  mused  on  such  dissolution:  "We  must 
die.  These  hands  and  this  flesh  will  become  dust  and 
ashes.  They  are  dead, — the  men  so  young,  rich,  and 
strong,  who  were  full  of  life  a  few  hours  ago.     And  I 


154  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

also, —  I  shall  soon  die;  possibly  a  breath  may  cast  me  out 
of  life.  What  is  beyond  this  life  ?  Oh,  man,  the  Devil 
plays  at  chess  with  you ! " 

The  sermons  may  still  be  read,  and  have  doubtless 
proved  a  source  of  inspiration  to  countless  preachers  of 
various  creeds  and  nations.  These  sermons  are  bold  and 
original  in  imagery,  naive  and  eloquent;  but  the  living 
presence  of  the  man  is  lacking,  and  they  become  the  dried 
leaves  of  a  great  memory  in  our  grasp. 

The  pulpit  was  the  throne  of  Savonarola  during  that 
noonday  of  popularity.  The  sermons  were  what  the  ora- 
tions of  Demosthenes  had  been  to  Athens,  and  of  Cicero 
to  Rome. 

The  history  of  preaching  reverted  to  the  earliest  days 
of  the  Church  in  Saint  Gregory,  Basil,  and  Saint  John 
Chrysostom.  Savonarola  lacked  the  oratorical  grace  of 
a  Saint  Benedict,  a  Saint  Dominic,  Saint  Francis  d'Assisi, 
and  that  eloquent  monk,  Bernardino  of  Siena,  who  had 
given  proof  of  his  power  in  the  Church  of  St.  Augustine 
at  the  age  of  twelve  years,  but  he  emulated  the  Hebrew 
prophets,  Amos,  Ezekiel,  Jonas. 

The  ardor  of  disciples  and  partisans  ready  to  sacrifice 
all  for  him  was  manifested  on  behalf  of  Savonarola,  the 
right  of  noble  natures.  A  young  Albizi,  a  Strozzi,  a 
Ruccellai,  and  a  Salviati  entered  his  fold.  The  most 
characteristic  element  of  the  day  is  the  figure  of  Bettuccio, 
son  of  a  goldsmith,  and  himself  a  miniature  painter, 
better  known  as  Fra  Benedetto,  whose  lament  of  Savona- 
rola's martyrdom  extends  through  the  pages  of  his  work, 
the  "Cedrus  Libanus."  The  young  Bettuccio  had  lived 
joyously,  wore  garments  scented  with  musk,  and  gay  orna- 
ments, was  skilled  in  music  and  poetry,  and  a  welcome 
guest  everywhere.  Levity  of  mind  took  the  form  of  mock- 
ery of  the  prior  of  St.  Mark.  Finally  he  went  to  the 
Duomo  with  an  uneasy  desire  of  escape,  then  fixed  his 


BY  THE   CITY   GATE.  155 

eyes  on  Savonarola  in  the  pulpit,  and  was  ever  afterward 
unable  to  withdraw  from  that  influence.  Bettuccio, 
crushed,  overwhelmed,  feeling  himself  more  dead  than 
alive,  cast  away  the  music,  cards,  and  perfumed  dresses 
to  enter  religion. 

It  was  thus  that  Savonarola  fed  the  souls  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  with  the  bread  of  life  in  the  temple  still  open  to 
the  traveller. 

Lorenzo  the  Magnificent  died  in  1492,  and  the  Pope 
Innocent  YIII.  in  the  same  year.  To  the  dismay  of  all 
Christendom  Alexander  YI.  succeeded  to  the  papacy. 
Piero  de'  Medici  ruled  after  his  gifted  father,  haughty  by 
reason  of  his  Orsini  blood,  headstrong  where  the  old 
Medici  citizen  discretion  and  finesse  were  needful,  weak 
and  vain  when  firmness  and  decision  might  have  saved  his 
inheritance. 

The  time  was  critical,  foreboding  change  and  perhaps 
ruin.  The  feeble  Galeazzo  replaced  the  astute  Francesco 
Sforza  at  Milan,  and  Pasquale  Malipiero,  the  Doge  Fran- 
cesco Foscari  at  Venice.  Rival  preachers  already  con- 
tested the  influence  of  the  fiery  zeal  of  Savonarola's  pulpit 
throne.  Fra  Marianno  Gennezzano  had  essayed  to  re- 
establish his  former  sway  of  polished  fascination  on  a 
cultivated  audience,  and  failed.  After  a  courteous  tilt  of 
doctrinal  debate  with  Savonarola,  he  finally  withdrew  to 
Rome,  where  he  is  accused  of  having  influenced  the  Borgia 
against  the  upright  and  zealous  reformer. 

Piero  de'  Medici  interfered  with  Savonarola's  Lenten 
sermons,  at  the  instigation  of  the  Minorite  friars.  Savon- 
arola went  to  Bologna,  1493,  and  there  addressed  vast 
throngs.  The  Duchess  Bentivolgio,  coming  late  to  the 
church,  with  much  rustle  and  flutter  of  attendants,  was 
sternly  rebuked  by  the  preacher,  which  so  deeply  incensed 
the  noble  dame  that  she  ordered  him  slain  on  the  spot. 
The  attendants  hesitated.     Savonarola,   undismayed,  an- 


166  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

nounced  from  the  pulpit  that  he  would  leave  for  Florence 
that  evening,  and  sleep  at  Pianora,  carrying  only  his 
wallet  and  wooden  flask.  "  Know  that  my  death  will  not 
occur  at  Bologna,"  he  added;  and  his  words  must  have 
inspired  awe  in  his  hearers.     He  departed  unmolested. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  draw  the  line  where  a  courageous 
sense  of  duty  and  the  belief  that  one  is  appointed  to  ac- 
complish a  great  mission  may  deepen  to  a  prophetic  tone. 
Others  have  felt  this  power  later  than  the  prior  of 
St.  Mark. 

Ecclesiastical  reform  had  often  before  been  preached; 
Dante  had  painted  the  need  of  it.  The  way  was  now  pre- 
pared by  heresy  and  disgust  of  the  Borgia.  Savonarola 
fulfilled  the  task  as  a  mind  of  his  time,  representing  the 
transition  between  the  defeat  of  John  Huss  and  the  tri- 
umph of  Luther  in  other  countries,  while  his  place  in  his 
own  has  been  ranked  between  Arnold  of  Brescia  and 
Giordano  Bruno.  Instrument  of  a  new  life  in  the  convul- 
sions of  a  changing  society,  he  could  perceive  that  violence 
and  agitation  were  better  than  the  lethargy  of  death. 
Whither  his  own  steps  were  carrying  him  he  surely  could 
not  see,  or  realize  the  full  meaning  of  his  destiny.  He 
buckled  on  his  armor  against  unbelief  and  vice.  There 
was  no  need  of  prophecy  to  discern  the  doom  of  Italy,  with 
Pope  Alexander  VI.  and  Charles  YIII.  of  France  promi- 
nent. Savonarola  prayed,  made  the  Bible  his  constant 
study,  and  saw  the  visions  of  a  monk,  worn  with  constant 
vigils  and  fastings.  He  wrote  the  "  Compendium  Revela- 
tionum, "  in  which  he  revealed  confidence  in  his  own  power 
of  prophesying.  Once  more  he  occupied  the  pulpit  of  the 
Duomo.  His  address  to  the  Florence  which  he  wished  to 
renew,  purify,  and  glorify  was :  "  Oh,  if  I  could  say  all, 
you  would  see  that  I  am  like  a  new  vase  in  which  the 
wine  is  hermetically  sealed,  and  ferments  without  power 
of  escape.     I  have  in  me  many  secrets  which  your  incre- 


BY   THE  CITY   GATE.  157 

dulity  prevents  my  revealing.  Oh,  Florence!  If  thou 
wouidst  not  believe  before,  believe  at  least  to-day ;  and  if 
thou  hast  believed,  believe  more  than  ever  this  morning ! 
Pay  no  heed  to  me ;  I  am  a  poor  monk,  a  poor  preacher. 
Listen  to  what  God  has  inspired  in  me.  Follow  my 
counsels. " 

Full  noonday  had  come  to  Savonarola  of  power  unlimited 
over  the  new  Jerusalem  he  longed  to  remodel.  The  peas- 
ants flocked  from  the  mountain  villages  at  dawn,  as  they 
enter  the  town  to-day  to  hear  the  Padre  Agostino  da 
Montefeltro,  the  Lenten  preacher.  The  multitude  swayed 
at  his  bidding  in  a  religious  revival  as  intense,  passionate, 
and  extreme  as  the  recent  pursuit  of  pleasure  in  the  Carni- 
val festivities,  and  the  spectacles  of  the  Festa  of  Saint 
John.  Women  cast  aside  their  jewels,  and  there  was  fast- 
ing nearly  all  the  year,  to  the  indignation  of  the  butchers. 
Lauds  and  canticles  were  heard  in  the  streets.  During 
the  hour  of  the  prior's  sermon  shops  and  schools  were 
closed.  Religious  zeal  sowed  dissension  in  families; 
wives  quitted  worthy  husbands  to  enter  convents ;  brides 
and  grooms  partook  of  the  sacrament  instead  of  the  wed- 
ding feast.  The  children  were  his  especial  care,  and  had 
seats  apart  in  the  Cathedral.  He  made  them  his  emis- 
saries in  the  emotional  phase  of  burning  the  vanities  in 
the  Piazza  Signoria,  and  the  founding  of  a  Monte  di  Piet^. 
Here  was  something  more  than  the  atonement  of  a  year's 
dissipation  of  Catholic  countries  by  a  Lenten  repentance 
in  the  Florentine  mind,  as  when  France  under  Louis  XV. 
replaced  Corneille  and  Moli^re  with  Bourdaloue  and 
Massillon.  Savonarola  was  called  the  true  light.  The 
tide  of  philosophy  flowed  in  two  streams  from  this  cradle, 
the  Florence  Academy,  — the  Platonic  spreading  southward 
to  find  a  culmination  in  Bruno,  and  the  Aristotelian  tending 
north  to  Bologna,  Pavia,  and  Padua,  urging  the  impor- 
tance of  experiment  with  result  in  Galileo.     Savonarola's 


158  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

hearers  found  in  all  only  emptiness,  a  terrifying  void. 
Saints  Jerome  and  Ambrose  banished  Horace,  Virgil,  and 
Cicero.  Christianity  and  mediaevalism  opposed  the  pagan 
Renaissance.  Men  lost  themselves  in  the  mystical  con- 
templation of  God,  the  saints,  the  Virgin.  To  Greek  and 
Roman  antiquity  succeeded  the  imaginative  awakening  of 
national  poetry  in  idealism. 

Savonarola  used  the  formula  with  thunder-striking  ef- 
fect, "  Thus  saith  the  Lord. "  He  held  above  his  hearers 
the  awe-inspiring  certainty  that  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
was  at  hand,  the  conversion  of  all  Turks  and  infidels  im- 
minent, the  renovation  of  Church  and  State  urgent. 

Then  ensued  the  period  so  familiar  in  history  when  he 
was  the  true  ruler  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual  of  the 
commonwealth.  The  people  gave  heed  to  his  projects  of 
reform  in  morals  and  institutions.  Soderini,  Francesco 
Valori  aiding,  cast  the  vote  of  the  Signory  for  adoption  in 
black  beans,  and  white  for  rejection.  Savonarola  obtained 
the  construction  of  the  vast  Sola  to  contain  the  Grand 
Council  in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio.  He  attained  the  gran- 
deur of  the  noble  idea  of  making  Jesus  Christ  the  king 
of  the  city,  as  when  the  Jews  demanded  a  ruler  of 
Samuel.  "Take  Christ  for  thy  master,  and  live  under 
his  law." 

The  populace  and  the  children  cried,  "  Viva  Gesu  Cristo, 
nostro  re  I " 

At  the  same  time  Pisa,  struggling  for  liberty,  failed  to 
move  his  sympathy.  The  banished  Medici  could  not 
regain  former  power.  Savonarola  went  to  Lucca  with 
Tanai  de'  Nerli,  Ruccellai,  Capponi,  and  Cavalcanti,  to 
propitiate  the  French  king,  Charles  VIIL,  whose  advent 
in  Italy  changed  the  face  of  Europe.  The  entrance  of 
the  king  into  Florence  followed,  and  the  tearing  up  of 
the  treaty  by  the  intrepid  citizen,  Piero  Capponi,  with  the 
threat  of  ringing  the  town  bells  in  response  to  French 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  159 

trumpets.  Alexander  VI.  made  temporizing  offers  to  the 
bold  monk  of  the  archbishopric  of  Florence,  or  a  cardi- 
nal's hat.  Savonarola  is  reputed  to  have  replied  that  he 
desired  no  hat  save  one  reddened  with  his  own  blood. 
From  the  pulpit  he  launched  the  warning:  "Prepare 
thyself,  O  Rome,  for  great  shall  be  thy  pimishment; 
thou  shalt  be  hemmed  in  with  iron,  and  given  up  to  the 
sword,  the  fire,  and  the  flame ! "  How  his  figure  stands 
forth  inspired  by  the  immense  moral  courage  requisite  for 
such  a  defiance ! 

Within  the  cloister  we  have  the  portraits  of  the  trium- 
virate formed  by  the  prior  and  his  two  devoted  followers, 
P^ra  Domenico  Buonvicini  and  Fra  Silvestro  Maruffi,  given 
by  Fra  Roberto  Ubaldino  de  Gaglano :  "  Fra  Hieronimo 
always  bore  marks  of  sanctity,  devotion,  humility,  prayer, 
good  words,  pure  morals,  an  excellent  example,  and  admi- 
rable conversation,  a  doctrine  healthy,  firm,  and  solid. 
Fra  Domenico  was  a  man  of  pure  life,  but  a  narrow  soul, 
and  too  much  given  to  belief  in  revelations,  the  dreams  of 
goodwives.  I  saw  Fra  Silvestro  spend  all  his  time  in  the 
cloister  gossiping  with  citizens,  and  he  had  always  his 
cell  full  of  strangers,  as  well  as  the  garden.  The  breth- 
ren murmured  much." 

Savonarola  found  leisure  to  write  his  great  work,  "  The 
Triumph  of  the  Cross,"  which  opens  with  the  picture  of 
Christ  mounted  on  a  car  with  four  wheels,  triumphant, 
yet  scarcely  escaped  from  the  agony  of  Gethsemane.  On 
his  head  was  a  globe  surrounded  by  rays,  as  emblematic 
of  the  Trinity;  in  his  left  hand  he  held  the  cross  and 
instruments  of  torture,  while  in  the  right  were  the  ancient 
and  modern  testaments.  At  his  feet  was  the  chalice,  sur- 
mounted by  the  Host,  and  surrounded  by  the  sacraments. 
A  little  below  Christ  was  the  Virgin,  with  vases  of  gold, 
silver,  and  crystal,  containing  the  ashes  of  the  dead  con- 
fided to  her  care.     Apostles  and  preachers  dragged  the 


160  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO 

chariot.     Patriarchs  and  prophets  of  the  Old  Testament 
walked  before,  and  a  crowd  of  all  conditions  followed. 

This  cumbersome  machinery  of  allegory  reminds  one 
of  Northern  imagery  in  art,  the  carvings  of  German 
churches,  and  Dutch  chimney-pieces.  Did  Savonarola 
receive  some  wave  of  influence  from  the  Low  Countries, 
or  was  Holland  still  more  indebted  to  Italy  ? 

Religious  excitement  was  wrought  to  the  highest  pitch ; 
the  pure  exaltation  of  the  leader  became  frenzy  and  folly 
in  his  disciples.  He  was  supposed  to  possess  miraculous 
gifts :  he  had  driven  forth  all  evil  spirits  from  the  convent ; 
he  could  call  down  fire  from  heaven;  he  could  raise  the 
dead  to  life  once  more.  The  younger  Pico  della  Mirandola 
eagerly  demanded  that  his  famous  uncle  should  receive 
such  resurrection. 

The  sun  of  popular  favor  had  set ;  and  the  night  of  terror, 
confusion,  and  suffering  was  at  hand.  Savonarola  preached 
in  the  Duomo  and  was  insulted,  the  pulpit  defiled,  the 
sermon  interrupted,  and  he  withdrew  by  the  Street  of  the 
Watermelon,  protected  by  the  Piagnoni.  His  moderation 
and  dignity  of  bearing  suffered  no  comment  on  the  inci- 
dent, while  he  continued  to  expound  the  text  on  returning 
to  the  convent.  He  was  excommunicated  by  the  Pope.  He 
had  appealed  to  the  Emperor  Maximilian,  to  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella  of  Spain,  to  Ludovico  the  Moor,  to  intervene  in 
Italian  politics ;  and  the  letter  to  the  latter  had  been  inter- 
cepted.    The  Medici  power  was  again  in  the  ascendant. 

From  a  worldly  standpoint  the  wane  of  power  did  not 
need  the  machinations  of  the  Pope  or  the  Medici.  Reac- 
tion from  asceticism  was  natural ;  the  hissing  serpent  of 
evil  raised  its  head,  —  the  gamblers  and  astrologers,  long 
crushed  by  the  anathemas  of  the  preacher,  and  the  youth 
forming  the  Compagnacci,  who  longed  for  the  wedding 
feasts  and  former  revelry,  and  made  lampoons  circulate 
about  the  streets,  satirizing  the  Piagnoni  as  weepers  and 


BY  THE  CITY  GATE.  161 

hypocrites;  the  rival  orders,  who  stigmatized  Savonarola 
as  a  sower  of  discord  in  the  midst,  with  such  a  conservative 
element  in  the  background  as  the  husbands  and  the  in- 
dignant butchers.  He  withdrew  to  St.  Mark,  where  his 
disciples  still  esteemed  him  as  a  saint  or  a  magician.  The 
curious  ordeal  of  passing  through  fire  and  the  ultimate 
failure  of  the  test  followed. 

The  decree  of  banishment  from  Florence  was  succeeded 
by  the  attack  of  the  Arrabbiati  and  the  Compagnacci  on 
the  monastery,  with  the  clamor,  "  To  arms !  to  arms !  San 
Marco ! " 

Darkness  of  night!  The  mob  cursed  and  howled;  the 
monks  within  strove  to  chant.  Valori,  summoned  before 
the  Signory,  was  slain  in  the  street  by  his  enemies,  the 
Ridolfi  and  the  Tornabuoni.  We  see  Savonarola,  clad  in 
his  sacerdotal  robes  and  carrying  the  relics  in  procession 
through  the  cloisters  and  corridors,  followed  by  his  flock, 
the  groans  of  the  wounded  mingling  with  the  tumult,  until 
the  order  came  for  the  prior  to  give  himself  up  to  the  law. 
We  hear  Fra  Malatesta  Sacromoro  murmur  that  the  shep- 
herd should  save  the  sheep.  Then  Savonarola  went  forth 
into  the  square,  with  his  arms  tied  behind  his  back,  to 
be  protected  by  the  spears  of  the  soldiery  in  helmet  and 
cuirass  from  the  seething  multitude,  while  reviled  with 
coarsest  brutality  of  abuse,  and  his  delicate  hands  wrenched 
and  twisted  by  his  adversaries. 

Darkness  of  night !  Torture  in  the  old  Bargello,  watched 
over  by  devils  rather  than  men  in  his  anguish,  the  poor 
right  arm  left  uninjured  by  the  rack  in  order  to  sign 
refutation  of  errors,  the  notary,  Ser  Ceccone,  alert  to  re- 
ceive all  depositions,  then  the  cell  far  up  in  the  tower  of 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  while  the  Signory  wrangled  over  his 
fate,  and  the  pyre  was  being  made  ready  in  the  square 
below!  In  the  spirit  of  the  age  he  was  accused,  like 
Peter,  of  denying  his  Lord.     Surely  his  disciples  may  be 

11 


162  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

pardoned  if  in  turn  they  compared  his  pilgrimage  to 
that  of  Christ  to  Calvary.  He  wrote  his  meditations  on 
the  Miserere  high  up  yonder  in  the  tower,  with  the  unin- 
jured right  hand :  "  Sorrow  has  pitched  his  camp  around 
me,  and  has  encompassed  me  with  a  strong  and  numerous 
army ;  he  has  taken  full  possession  of  my  heart,  and  never 
ceases,  night  or  day,  to  attack  me  with  clang  of  jarms. " 

Above  the  sound  of  chains  rose  the  voices  of  angels. 
If  ever  he  had  visions,  it  must  have  been  at  that  supreme 
moment,  when  he  was  capable  of  saying  with  Ignatius  and 
Polycarp,  "The  greater  the  pain,  the  greater  the  gain." 
Did  he  more  than  ever  realize  that  Christ's  birth  into  this 
sinful  world  was  his  true  death,  his  veritable  crucifixion, 
and  his  death  only  a  return  to  everlasting  glory  ?  So 
shall  the  last  day  be  the  first  of  perpetual  repose.  May 
he  not  already  have  beheld,  with  spiritualized  vision,  the 
Priest  Most  High  walking  amid  the  golden  lamps  of  the 
new  Jerusalem  ? 

On  learning  of  the  sentence  of  death,  Fra  Domenico 
prepared  to  share  the  martyrdom  of  Savonarola  with  en- 
thusiasm,  and  Fra  Silvestro  with  agitation. 

May  23,  1498,  in  the  forty-sixth  year  of  his  age,  after 
partaking  of  the  sacrament  in  the  beautiful  little  chapel 
of  San  Bernardo,  Savonarola  descended  to  the  vale  of 
shadow,  the  square,  the  humiliation  of  being  disrobed,  the 
gibes  of  the  multitude,  and  the  very  children  who  may 
have  once  belonged  to  his  choirs. 

"I  separate  you  from  the  Church  militant  and  trium- 
phant," was  the  fiat  of  the  Pope's  emissary. 

"  From  the  Church  militant,  but  from  the  Church  trium- 
phant, it  is  not  in  your  power  to  do, "  was  the  memorable 
reply. 

Let  us  draw  the  veil  over  the  cruel,  often-described 
scene.  The  flames  speedily  leaped  up  about  the  inani- 
mate body,  for  "  Savonarola's  soul  went  out  in  fire. " 


THOSE  WHO   CAME  AFTER.  163 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THOSE  WHO   CAME   AFTER. 


TT  is  midnight  in  the  Via  Cocomero.  Heavy  masses  of 
■*■  cloud  obscure  the  sky,  as  if  about  to  dissolve  in  rain ; 
and  the  atmosphere  is  dull,  lifeless,  stagnant,  with  that 
element  of  suspense  in  immobility,  suggestive  of  one  of 
the  eight  winds  reputed  to  sweep  the  Arno  capital,  awaken- 
ing to  fresh  activity,  bringing  the  keenness  of  snow  from 
the  Apennines,  or  the  languid  warmth  of  a  sea  current 
from  the  south. 

The  narrow  street  is  silent,  save  for  the  echo  of  a  pass- 
ing footstep  or  the  rumble  of  an  occasional  vehicle.  The 
Niccolini  Theatre  is  mute ;  arched  doorways  form  blotting 
shadows  where  mediaeval  assassins  might  lurk.  At  one 
end  of  the  thoroughfare  the  vast  pile  of  the  Duomo  is  en- 
veloped in  obscurity;  in  the  opposite  direction,  the  low 
wall  of  the  monastery  of  St.  Mark  is  faintly  defined. 

The  Shrine  of  the  Five  Lamps  gains  at  the  moment  its 
deepest  significance  in  the  span  of  day.  Shadows  throng 
about  it  at  this  weird  hour.  Revery,  the  merest  idle 
musing,  acquires  a  definite  interest  in  the  presence  of  this 
phantom  company.  The  street,  the  city,  the  air,  are  full 
of  the  ghosts  of  a  great  past.  The  strife  of  rival  factions  is 
noiseless  and  bloodless ;  and  the  clash  of  arms  has  become 
the  faintest  echo  of  the  wind.  If-  partisans  rush  from  the 
Duomo  into  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon  to  equip  them- 
selves with  weapons  in  the  houses  of  the  Cambi,  or  the 
throng  of  women,  unable  to  hear  the  prior  in  the  crowd, 


164  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

retreat  to  the  Church  of  San  Niccolo,  they  brush  the  shrine 
with  their  impalpable  garments.  The  contest  of  warm 
human  passions  was  hushed  so  long  ago. 

Savonarola,  an  austere  shade,  guarded  by  the  phalanx 
of  the  Piagnoni,  traversed  the  street,  coming  from  the 
Duomo,  where  he  had  been  insulted  by  his  enemies,  as 
he  preached  there  for  the  last  time.  Ingratitude,  raillery, 
hissing  hatred,  and  the  menace  of  temporal  power  form 
the  bitter  dregs  of  the  cup  already  held  to  his  lips. 

And  those  who  came  after  ? 

When  the  martyrdom  of  the  Piazza  Signoria  had  been 
accomplished,  and  noble  ladies,  disguised  as  servants, 
had  pressed  forward  to  collect  relics  of  the  dead  from  the 
funeral  pyre,  before  the  ashes  were  cast  into  the  Arno  from 
the  Ponte  Vecchio,  such  darkness  as  that  of  the  pres- 
ent hour  settled  on  the  faithful  followers  of  Savonarola. 
Consternation  at  the  humiliation  of  his  end,  when  some 
miraculous  intervention  for  a  prophet  was  awaited  in 
expectant  awe,  added  a  poignancy  to  the  fear  induced  by 
persecution.  Gloom,  depression,  and  weakness  were 
manifested  by  the  flocks  robbed  of  their  shepherd.  They 
knew  not  which  way  to  turn.  Abuse,  mockery,  violence 
in  every  form,  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  hapless  Piagnoni, 
who  had  believed  in  Savonarola.  Many  fled  from  intoler- 
able contumely;  others  endured  in  silence;  still  more 
bowed  to  the  passing  storm.  That  wail  of  the  abandoned 
Savonarpliani  inscribed  in  Fra  Benedetto's  "  Cedrus  Liba- 
nus  "  seems  to  linger  on  the  ear :  — 

"  La  carita  e  spenta, 

Amor  di  Dio  non  ci  h 
Tepido  ognuni  diventOf 
Non  ci  e  piu  vivafe.** 

The  monastery  of  St.  Mark  was  closed  for  two  years, 
although  the  monks  had  made  timid,  even  abject,  over- 
tures for  forgiveness  to  the  Pope.     The  treasures  of  the 


THOSE  WHO  CAME  AETER.  165 

monastic  library  were  scattered,  and  the  bell  of  the  church 
tower,  called  La  Piagnora,  taken  down,  because  tolled  on 
the  day  of  the  tumult,  and  whipped  through  the  town  by 
the  common  hangman. 

The  faction  of  the  Arrabbiati  fumigated  with  brimstone 
the  churches  where  the  influence  of  Savonarola  had  been 
felt.  The  climax  of  public  obloquy  of  all  hypocrites  and 
weepers  was  attained  by  leading  a  wretched  ass  to  the 
customary  place  of  Savonarola  in  the  Duomo  at  Christmas, 
and  then  goading  the  animal  aroimd  the  interior  of  the 
sacred  edifice  until  it  fell  dead.  This  act  of  revolting 
brutality  was  instigated  by  Tanai  de'  Nerli. 

How  vivid,  if  oblique,  the  glimpse  of  personal  hatred  to 
the  preacher,  finding  vent  in  a  frenzied  beating  of  a  poor 
ass  in  a  church !  yet  Tanai  de'  Nerli  was  a  notable  citizen, 
intrusted  with  foreign  embassies  in  the  interests  of  the 
commonwealth.  He  appears  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  in  an 
altar  picture  of  the  Church  of  Santo  Spirito,  as  pious 
parent  and  edifying  husband,  while  Saint  Catherine 
presents  his  wife  to  the  Virgin. 

Such  was  the  point  of  view  of  Tanai  de'  Nerli,  to  whom 
Savonarola  was  an  active  enemy,  a  sower  of  discord  in  the 
household,  a  disturber  of  public  peace. 

Luther  declared  Savonarola  his  champion ;  but  the  tenets 
of  Luther  were  not  accepted  by  Florence,  especially  by  the 
monks  of  St.  Mark  and  the  Piagnoni,  who  affirmed  that 
their  leader  desired  not  apostasy  from  the  Church,  but  its 
purification. 

The  vital  spark  of  faith  was  not  quenched.  On  the  23d 
of  May  garlands  of  flowers  were  placed  on  the  spot  where 
the  stake  had  been  erected  for  many  years,  in  defiance  of 
all  police  regulations.  Passionate  attachment  to  the 
memory  of  Savonarola  acquired  manifold  phases  of  the 
worship  of  relics,  and  the  performance  of  miracles  of 
healing.     The  younger  Pico  della  Mirandola  recovered 


166  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

from  the  Arno  a  grewsome  treasure  which  he  was  pleased  to 
consider  the  heart  of  Savonarola,  and  as  such,  the  object 
of  veneration  healed  countless  sick  persons.  Superstition 
and  fantasy  went  hand  in  hand  with  the  true  reverence 
experienced  in  traversing  the  wide  piazza  at  the  present 
hour  and  contemplating  the  Palazzo  Vecchio.  His  por- 
trait, with  a  halo  surrounding  the  head,  is  said  to  have  been 
exposed  for  sale  at  Rome  after  death.  Thirty  years  later 
the  Piagnoni,  as  a  faction,  wielded  political  power  in  Flor- 
ence, thus  confirming  his  influence  on  a  new  generation. 

The  German  reformer  is  not  one  of  the  phantoms  hover- 
ing near  the  Shrine  of  the  Five  Lamps  at  midnight,  but 
the  wraith  of  the  nun,  Catherine  di  Pier  Francesco  Ricci, 
passes  on  noiseless  feet.  This  noble  lady,  who  was  an 
inmate  of  the  convent  of  San  Yincenzo,  at  Prato,  having 
been  ill  with  fever  for  two  years,  in  1540,  vowed  to  Fra 
Girolamo  and  his  companions  that  if  she  were  cured  in 
three  days  she  would  sing  three  Masses  in  their  honor  on 
the  anniversary  of  their  martyrdom,  and  keep  the  day  for 
three  years.  Thereupon  the  three  Dominicans  appeared 
to  her  in  a  dream,  and  Savonarola  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  She  awoke  cured,  and  composed  many  songs  of 
thanksgiving  for  her  recovery  as  narrated  by  devout 
monks.  Was  it  owing  to  the  fervor  of  her  subsequent 
zeal,  or  the  eloquence  of  the  lauds  she  sang,  that  the 
Suor  Caterina  de'  Ricci  was  canonized  as  a  saint  ? 

War  and  other  misfortunes  swept  over  the  land  and 
the  Florentine  commonwealth,  thus  fulfilling  the  sagacious 
predictions  of  Savonarola.  Cesare  Borgia,  scheming  to 
found  a  State  in  the  Romagna,  would  fain  devour  Italy, 
like  an  artichoke,  leaf  by  leaf.  Time  failed  him,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  leave  the  tempting  morsel  to  France  and 
Austria. 

Said  Lord  Bacon :  "  The  history  of  times  representeth 
the  magnitude  of  actions ;  but  lives,  propounding  to  them- 


THOSE  WHO   CAME  AFTER.  167 

selves  a  person  to  represent,  in  whom  actions,  both  greater 
and  smaller,  public  and  private,  have  a  comixture,  contain 
a  more  true,  lively,  and  native  representation. " 

The  artists  claim  our  interest,  separating  themselves 
naturally  from  the  ranks  of  mere  party,  and  more  or  less 
visionary  worshippers.  Even  in  the  obscurity  the  group 
forms  before  our  eyes.  Savonarola  is  the  central  figure, 
surrounded  by  notable  men.  Each  carries  a  separate  at- 
mosphere about  him.  Savonarola  was  the  tree  with  vigo- 
rous roots  in  the  earth,  and  these  followers  the  branches, 
the  leaves,  and  the  fruit.  Savonarola  was  the  star,  and  these 
the  rays  reflected  in  troubled  waters.  From  this  spot* the 
three  sister  shapes  —  Sculpture,  Architecture,  and  Paint- 
ing —  went  forth  to  beautify  the  world.  If  we  search  for 
the  work  of  several  of  these  great  men  in  Florence,  we  may 
discover  some  peculiar  significance  of  Savonarola's  power 
of  moral  influence  in  the  moulding  of  clay,  the  fusing  of 
bronze,  the  mingling  of  colors,  the  shaping  of  marble  to 
altar  and  temple.  He  showed  these  that  life  is  not  idle 
ore,  but  metal  to  be  bent  to  noble  ends.  By  their  fruits, 
the  work  left  behind,  we  know  them.  There  is  a  profound 
interest  to  most  of  us  in  knowing  what  other  souls,  groping 
amid  sin,  crime,  and  doubt  after  the  light,  have  felt  and 
believed.  So  down  to  our  time  we  experience  a  sympathy, 
an  emotion  beyond  ourselves  in  tracing  this  chain  of 
being,  each  link  separate  yet  connected  with  the  rest,  and 
all  subject  to  the  universal  law  of  growth  and  decay,  life 
and  death.  "  Pray  not  for  crutches,  but  for  wings, "  says 
an  American  divine.  What  manner  of  men  were  those  to 
whom  Savonarola  promised  wings  instead  of  crutches  ? 
One  cannot  read  an  entire  guidebook,  however  conscien- 
tious, without  bewilderment.  The  individualities  of  a  few 
artists,  influenced  by  Savonarola,  gather  around  the  Shrine 
of  the  Five  Lamps. 

Michelangelo,  a  thrilled  listener  of  the  prior  of  St.  Mark 


168  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

in  his  youth,  read  the  sermons  in  his  old  age.  The 
brothers  Delia  Robbia,  made  priests  by  Savonarola,  mod- 
elled medals  bearing  his  likeness  on  one  side,  and  a  city 
with  towers  on  the  reverse.  Girolamo  Benivieni,  Floren- 
tine gentleman  and  poet,  inseparably  associated  with  art, 
ventured  to  address  the  Pope  Clement  VII.,  after  the  siege 
of  his  native  town,  in  terms  that  might  have  emanated 
from  the  leader  long  dead.  Baccio  della  Porta  became 
the  monk  Fra  Bartolommeo  of  St.  Mark;  Sandro  Bot- 
ticelli gave  up  painting,  and  would  have  starved  but  for 
aid  from  the  Medici;  Lorenzo  di  Credi  passed  the  last 
years  of  his  life  in  the  monastery  of  Santa  Maria  Novella ; 
maddened  by  persecution,  Baccio  da  Montelupo  fled  to 
Bologna,  Venice,  and  Lucca;  Cronaca  ceased  telling 
stories;  Giovanni  della  Corniuole  perpetuated  the  peculiar 
physiognomy  of  the  Frate  on  his  finest  gem.  In  the  back- 
ground of  the  picture  one  may  fancy  Francesco  della 
Tadda,  whose  chisel  was  tempered  to  cut  porphyry  under 
Cosimo  I.  The  self-absorption,  or  egotism,  which  enabled 
artists  to  pursue  their  work  in  turbulent  times,  oblivious 
of  siege  and  battle,  failed  in  the  trial  of  Savonarola's 
death.  The  strong  arm  drooped  unnerved,  the  fervid 
imagination  was  robbed  of  aliment  for  a  space  at  least, 
the  sacred  flame  of  an  extraordinary  personality  being 
withdrawn. 

These  are  still  the  shapes  that  haunt  the  Shrine  of  the 
Five  Lamps  at  midnight.  Noble  in  thought  and  aim,  the 
old  adage  might  have  applied  to  them,  that  if  the  heart  of 
a  Florentine  citizen  were  cut  open,  in  it  would  be  found  a 
lily  of  gold.  They  wrought  to  beautify,  their  labor  ema- 
nating from  the  soul,  and  carrying  in  the  brain  the  thrill- 
ing words  once  uttered  by  the  monk  of  St.  Mark. 

Thus  darkness  deepens  before  dawn,  and  far  above  the 
roofs  of  the  sleeping  town  rises  the  tower  of  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  called  La  Barberia.    The  slender,  graceful  shaft, 


THOSE  WHO  CAME  AFTER.  169 

unique  in  architecture,  is  dedicated  to  Christ,  and  under 
the  protection  of  Saint  Barbara,  as  the  patroness  of  towers 
and  protectress  against  storms.  The  bell  of  the  old  cow, 
La  Vacca,  is  mute.  In  1814  the  cell,  hollowed  out  of  the 
thickness  of  the  wall,  with  the  window  and  stone  bench 
intact,  where  Savonarola  and  Cosimo  the  Elder  were  each 
confined  in  turn,  was  rediscovered.  The  latter,  as  a  saga- 
cious politician,  schemed  to  recover  hereditary  right  of 
rule  over  the  town  outspread  below,  his  gold  coin  already 
in  circulation  among  the  crowd.  The  former,  crushed 
by  the  rack,  dreamed  of  heaven  and  raising  his  fellow- 
creatures  to  the  same  heights.  The  old  tower  still  soars 
above  the  roofs,  untouched  and  unharmed,  seemingly  immu- 
table amid  change.  No  clouds  of  incense  rise  about  the 
street  tabernacle,  and  no  prayers  are  repeated  by  devout 
citizens;  but  the  lamps  are  each  symbolical  of  a  prayer, 
yearning  heavenward  in  the  night.  The  ray  of  Abram's 
dream  or  of  Job's  musings  are  recalled  by  the  antique 
shape  of  the  receptacle,  and  massive  chains.  The  blended 
significance  of  religious  use  in  temples,  of  household  ban- 
quets and  wedding  feasts,  of  the  chill  sepulchre,  may  all 
be  derived  from  the  old  shrine,  for  birth,  marriage,  and 
death  have  been  perpetually  recurring  in  the  narrow 
way. 

The  first  lamp  glows  resplendent  in  the  obscurity,  be- 
comes transfigured  by  association,  swaying  on  links  of 
frosted  silver,  with  a  golden  chalice  and  precious  in- 
crustations, and  sheds  abroad  a  wide  effulgence  of  im- 
perishable glory.  That  lamp  burns  to  the  memory  of 
Michelangelo.  * 

How  slender  and  feeble  in  comparison  is  the  ray  beyond, 
and  yet  clear,  unwavering,  steadfast,  after  its  own  fashion. 
The  cup  is  bronze,  quaintly  turned,  and  of  classical  de- 
sign, and  might,  fed  with  perfumed  oil,  find  a  fitting  place 
in  a  nook  of  some  vast  sala  of  a  Florentine  palace,  placed 


170  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

beside  old  books,  precious  folios,  and  parchments.  The 
second  lamp  surely  belongs  to  Girolamo  Benivieni. 

The  life  flame  of  the  Delia  Robbia,  Fra  Bartolommeo, 
Botticelli,  Lorenzo  di  Credi,  glow  with  a  rich  and  holy 
lustre  in  the  wrought-brass  church  lamp  farther  on,  al- 
ways trimmed  to  reveal  altar  picture  and  fading  chapel 
fresco. 

The  wayward  spark  of  Baccio  da  Montelupo  and  Cronaca 
tremble  on  the  night  air;  and  still  more  remote,  the 
oblique  gleam  of  Francesco  della  Tadda  seems  to  flicker 
in  a  three- beaked  lucema  of  the  Tuscan  kitchen. 


IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  171 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN  THE  CHURCH   OP   THE  LILY. 

nnHE  Street  of  the  Watermelon  has  one  of  the  most 
-*-  magnificent  of  gateways  in  the  Cathedral  at  the  end 
of  the  thoroughfare.  Approaching  this  limit,  the  opposite 
door  and  porch  of  the  church,  with  the  columns  supported 
by  the  two  lions,  is  the  identical  portal  of  which  a  hapless 
citizen,  a  dweller  in  our  Via  del  Cocomero  centuries  ago, 
dreamed  one  night.  The  citizen  fancied  himself  bitten  by 
the  lions,  —  the  emblematic  animal,  guardian  of  the  sanc- 
tuary, according  to  the  Lombardic  creed  of  belief,  —  and 
wishing  to  disabuse  his  mind  of  the  painful  impression, 
went  the  next  morning  and  thrust  his  hand  into  the  marble 
jaws,  when  a  lurking  scorpion  stung  him,  and  he  died. 

We,  unstung  of  scorpions,  did  not  enter  by  the  lion- 
guarded  porch  on  a  memorable  occasion.  The  morning 
was  radiant  with  sunshine  in  a  period  of  fitful  weather, 
sudden  rain-gusts,  varied  by  keen-edged  winds,  calculated 
to  nip  the  circulation  of  royal  personages.  The  world 
was  out  of  tune,  the  spring  tardy  in  England  and  France, 
while  in  Italy  wise  old  people  croaked  that  the  moon  was 
a  month  behind  time,  as  the  goddess  had  been  for  the  past 
year,  with  results  detrimental  to  the  earth.  In  the  span 
of  sunshine  Florence  appeared  fresh,  dazzling;  music  re- 
sounded, and  silk  banners  of  wondrous  design,  devices  of 
dragon,  serpent,  or  crescent,  floated  from  the  palace  win- 
dows of  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon.  A  bouquet  of 
flowers  bloomed  in  a  china  vase  on  the  ledge  of  the  Taber- 


172  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

nacle  of  the  Five  Lamps.  Did  sober  Andrea  Tafi,  prepar- 
ing his  mosaic  cubes,  and  grinding  colors  in  the  dawn  of 
winter  mornings,  to  the  discomfiture  of  his  sleepy  pupil, 
Buffalmacco,  foresee  the  fulfilment  of  this  day  ?  Giotto 
must  have  divined  it,  with  clearest  vision  of  the  architect 
and  artist. 

We  did  not  enter  the  portal  of  the  lions  opposite  our 
street,  but  turning  to  the  left  in  the  piazza  skirted  the 
church  in  all  its  majestic  proportions. 

Something  unusual,  long  anticipated,  was  astir  in  the 
very  air.  The  mediaeval  buildings  were  decked  with 
banners,  tapestries,  escutcheons,  each  replete  with  some 
historical  meaning,  if  one  paused  to  decipher  motto  and 
coat-of-arms.  Masses  of  roses  clung  in  tender  loveliness 
to  the  rough  masonry,  cast  across  arched  doorway,  bal- 
cony, and  the  embrasure  of  casements.  In  the  Flower 
City  this  old  square  was  wreathed  with  roses  in  honor  of 
the  Duomo  Our  Lady  of  the  Flowers.  Beyond  the  Yia  dei 
Servi  the  blooming  sprays  made  space  for  a  bust  of  Dona- 
tello,  in  a  freshly  gilded  niche  on  an  ancient  house  sur- 
rounded by  the  laurel  wreaths  of  the  master's  centenary. 
Farther  on,  the  Opera  del  Duomo  poured  a  wealth  of  blos- 
soms from  cornucopias  across  the  facade,  as  if  to  desig- 
nate the  teeming  abundance  of  design  still  treasured 
within  the  walls.  Arnolfo  and  Brunelleschi  looked  on. 
How  superbly  the  church  dominated  these  fading  wreaths 
with  which  the  border  of  her  garments  was  decked  in  honor 
of  completion! 

Follow  with  the  eye  the  line  of  foundation  in  that  vast 
expanse  of  pavement,  the  square.  Sept.  8,  on  the  Nativity 
of  the  Virgin,  1298,  the  Cardinal  Pietro  Valeriani,  the 
first  papal  legate  sent  to  Florence,  laid  the  corner-stone. 
Arnolfo  di  Cambio  was  ordered  to  build  a  cathedral  by 
the  town :  "  Since  the  highest  mark  of  prudence  in  a 
people  of  noble  origin  is  to  proceed  in  the  management  of 


I 


IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  173 

their  affairs  so  that  their  magnanimity  and  wisdom  may 
be  evinced  in  their  outward  acts,  we  order  Arnolfo,  head- 
master of  our  commune,  to  make  a  design  for  the  renova- 
tion of  Santa  Reparata  in  a  style  of  magnificence  which 
neither  the  industry  nor  power  of  man  can  surpass." 
Such  were  the  terms  of  the  command.  Santa  Reparata, 
rudely  built  in  407,  after  the  model  of  a  basilica,  and  to 
commemorate  a  victory  of  the  Florentines  over  the  Goths, 
disappeared  before  Arnolfo's  new  edifice,  to  which  he  gave 
stability  by  ingenious  geometrical  combinations,  worked 
out  in  the  entire  structure.  Subterranean  wells  were  dug 
around  the  foundations,  for  the  escape  of  elastic  gases,  and 
to  obviate  the  danger  of  earthquakes. 

Follow  with  the  eye  the  upspringing  of  the  walls,  in 
obedience  to  the  will  of  one  mind,  capable  of  projecting 
at  the  same  time  the  Church  of  Santa  Croce  and  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio,  and  aided  by  an  enlightened  common- 
wealth. Marbles  of  Carrara,  Siena,  Prato,  Lavenza,  or 
Monterantoli,  all  incrusted  in  symmetrical  patterns,  set 
in  panels  with  vertical  and  horizontal  bands,  make  the 
surface  where  the  light  and  shadow  of  the  passing  hours, 
the  storms  and  sunshine  of  the  passing  centuries,  play 
with  the  rich  effect  characteristic  of  Italian  architecture. 
To  meet  the  expenses  of  erection  the  Guild  of  Wool  mer- 
chants gave  large  sums  out  of  their  own  funds,  and  ob- 
tained a  decree  of  a  tax  of  four  denari  in  a  lira  on  all 
goods  exported,  and  two  soldi  a  year  on  every  member  of 
the  population. 

Follow  with  the  eye  roof,  cornice,  and  dome,  rising 
above  apse  and  transept  against  the  blue  sky,  from  the 
corner  of  the  Yia  de'  Balestriere,  at  the  southeast  angle, 
and  consider  for  a  moment  how  Brunelleschi  fused  his 
life  into  that  supreme  achievement  impossible  to  the  grasp 
of  duller,  feebler  intellects,  the  outer  and  inner  shell 
forming  slowly  during  a  period  of  fourteen  years,  a  work- 


174  THE  LILY  OF  THE  AKNO. 

man  swept  off  occasionally  like  an  insect  rendered  giddy 
by  too  much  sunshine,  although  the  wine  was  watered  up 
there,  and  the  regimen  sober.  The  keynote  of  the  solu- 
tion of  roofing  in  the  sanctuary  was  thus  obtained,  after 
endless  debate  and  good-will  had  suggested  such  expedi- 
ents as  filling  the  entire  edifice  to  the  brim  with  earth  to 
gain  a  point  of  support  for  the  requisite  work.  If  the  hint 
were  judiciously  circulated  through  street  and  market- 
place that  silver  coin  had  been  mingled  with  the  soil, 
would  not  many  hands  aid  in  the  subsequent  removal  of 
the  mass,  as  the  sailors  and  navvies  still  help  in  building 
a  sanctuary  to  the  Madonna  on  the  hill  above  some  Medi- 
terranean seaport  ?  Many  more  years  must  elapse  before 
the  restoration  of  the  lantern,  which,  struck  by  lightning, 
was  replaced  later  by  the  work  of  Yerrocchio. 

There  is  the  outer  gallery  visible  from  this  point,  the 
narrow  passage  supplemented  by  Baccio  d'Agnolo,  wholly 
in  opposition  to  the  immense  corbels  of  Brunelleschi,  a 
fretting  zeal  checked  by  the  timely  sarcasm  of  Michel- 
angelo, that  it  resembled  one  of  the  tiny  wicker  cages  in 
which  countless  generations  of  Florentine  children  have 
captured  the  mole-cricket  in  the  meadows  on  Ascension 
Day. 

Contemplating  the  magnificent  building,  the  remem- 
brance of  the  parody  on  the  projects  of  the  guilds  will 
recur  to  the  mind  in  the  ceremonials  of  the  Club  of  the 
Trowel,  held  on  the  aja  or  threshing-floor  of  Santa  Maria 
Nuova,  in  1512,  where  the  bronze  gates  of  the  Baptistery 
had  been  cast. 

The  members,  divided  into  architects  and  operatives, 
were  shown  the  design  of  an  edifice,  the  former  furnished 
with  trowels,  and  the  latter  to  act  as  humble  laborers  in 
the  work  of  construction.  Pails  of  ricotta,  goats'  milk 
cheese,  served  for  mortar,  sugar-plums  for  gravel,  grated 
Parmesan  as  sand,  cakes  and  pastry  formed  the  bricks. 


IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  175 

while  meats  afforded  the  foundations,  and  fowls  and  sau- 
sages the  columns. 

Quitting  the  angle  of  the  Via  Proconsolo,  the  roses 
looped  their  sprays  of  living  bloom  along  the  other  side  of 
the  square,  where  orange-trees  flanked  the  porticos.  The 
most  beautiful  decoration  of  the  entire  piazza,  in  charac- 
teristic suggestiveness,  was  that  of  the  noble  brotherhood 
of  the  Misericordia.  Shields,  flowers,  golden  fruit  for 
balcony  and  embrasure  of  other  palaces,  but  for  the  Mis- 
ericordia wreaths  of  amaranth,  sheaves  of  palm,  violet 
clusters. 

Giotto's  Campanile  shone  with  rosy  reflections  in  the 
pure  light.  Opposite  is  the  Bigallo,  and  in  the  rear,  be- 
hind the  Baptistery,  the  residence  of  the  archbishop,  once 
dwelt  in  by  the  famous  Countess  Mathilda,  bore  on  the 
surface  curious  mediaeval  escutcheons. 

A  sea  of  human  life  surged  about  the  spot,  composed  of 
citizens,  mountaineers  from  the  distant  heights,  come  over 
night  to  witness  the  spectacle,  as  they  flocked  to  hear 
Savonarola  preach  centuries  ago,  and  peasants  from  the 
adjacent  Val  d'Arno.  These  elements  formed  a  solid 
phalanx  of  resistance  to  the  mounted  guards;  having 
gained  the  spot,  they  would  not  yield  an  inch  until  they 
had  tasted  to  the  full  the  Italian  intoxication  of  delight  in 
crowds,  movement,  and  tumult  of  spectacular  excitement. 
In  the  midst  a  shimmer  of  gold  and  velvet,  fringed  with 
white  marguerites,  indicated  the  royal  pavilion,  sur- 
rounded by  gleaming  uniforms  and  fluttering  plumes. 

The  queen  touched  an  electric  button,  and  the  curtain 
concealing  the  faQade  descended,  revealing  the  fact  that 
the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore  was  at  length  com- 
pleted. Then  the  central  door  opened,  and  the  archbishop 
emerged,  attired  in  his  richest  robes,  and  followed  by  the 
chapter  chanting.  The  prelate  blessed  the  sacred  edifice, 
and  extended  to  the  sovereigns  the  papal  benediction. 


176  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  pageant  was  effective,  with  such  an  incomparable 
setting ;  but  possibly  we  behold  it  all  too  near  at  hand  to 
realize  the  future  historical  significance  of  this  meeting  of 
Church  and  State,  just  as  the  faQade,  garish  and  highly 
ornate  in  freshness,  may  require  the  medium  of  softening 
summer  twilight  or  moonlight,  to  best  appreciate  the 
Madonna  of  Sarrocchi,  the  basso-rilievo  of  Passaglia,  the 
lunettes  and  mosaics  of  Barabino,  or  the  delicate  work  in 
marble  of  Canapino. 

The  least  observant  spectator  must  discern  the  keynote 
of  the  emotion  of  the  hour.  The  finest  modern  type  of 
king,  in  energetic  effort  and  generous  sympathy  with  his 
subjects,  the  priest,  the  architect,  the  sculptors,  and  the 
stone-cutters,  Tuscan  scalpelUni  from  the  districts  where 
Benedetto  da  Majano  and  the  Rovezzani  once  worked, 
meet  here  before  the  finished  fa9ade  in  a  fraternity  of 
mutual  recognition.  These  men  are  Italians  and  brothers 
from  King  Humbert,  wearing  the  order  of  the  Annunziata, 
to  the  marble-cutter  of  Settignano  in  his  holiday  coat, 
triumphant  and  independent,  who  points  out  the  trace  of 
his  own  chisel  on  pilaster  or  niche  to  his  womenkind,  sun- 
bronzed  and  bareheaded,  shrivelled  grandmother,  buxom 
wife,  and  laughing  girls. 

The  scene  might  warm  the  very  dust  of  Arnolfo  del 
Cambio,  who  designed  the  first  fa9ade,  and  of  Giotto,  who 
raised  the  ornamentation  to  one  third  of  the  requisite 
height  with  columns,  statues,  and  niches,  only  to  be  sacri- 
ficed two  centuries  later  when  pulled  down  by  Buontalenti, 
the  engineer  of  the  Grand-duke  Francesco,  even  of  Andrea 
del  Sarto,  who  painted  the  surface  of  rubble  and  cement 
in  chiaroscuro  for  a  passing  ceremonial. 

Surely  some  subtle  link  of  fellowship  must  exist  between 
the  Guild  of  Wool  and  the  citizens  taxed  two  soldi  in 
their  tombs,  and  the  Russian,  the  Frenchman,  the  Ameri- 
can, Englishman,  and  German,  who  have  given  of  their 


IN  THE   CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  177 

fortune  to  complete  the  fulfilment  of  to-day.  The  town 
gibe  of  centuries  must  henceforth  pass  into  oblivion: 
"Your  affair  will  be  settled  when  the  works  of  Santa 
Maria  are  completed." 

The  Florentine  is  unchanged.  A  few  years  ago  the 
entire  population  discussed  the  fa§ade,  as  to  the  desirabil- 
ity of  a  pointed  or  square  finish  of  the  top,  with  the  same 
interest  in  art  which  led  their  ancestors  to  carry  Cimabue's 
Madonna  in  procession  through  the  streets,  from  the  studio 
in  the  Borgo  Allegro  to  tlfe  Church  of  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
to  criticise  Donatello's  latest  work,  to  admire  the  bronze 
doors  of  the  Baptistery.  Should  the  apex  of  the  fa§ade 
be  cuspidal  or  bicuspidal  in  form  ?  The  question  was  on 
every  lip,  with  energy  of  dispute  waxing  hot  on  occasion, 
and  leading  to  the  tossing  of  the  contents  of  a  wine-glass 
in  the  face  of  a  vehement  adversary  in  the  neighboring 
caf^s. 

The  curtain  has  fallen ;  the  ceremony  is  terminated ;  the 
royal  cortege  moves  away ;  and  martial  music  fills  the  air. 
A  soft  cloud  of  carrier-pigeons  wing  their  flight  to  the 
most  distant  provinces  of  the  kingdom  to  announce  the 
event. 

In  the  calends  of  May,  month  of  love  and  roses,  Florence 
and  Venice  have  once  more  been  fair  rivals,  with  exhibi- 
tions, illuminations,  and  throngs  of  visitors.  As  in  the 
Middle  Ages  the  Arno  city  has  cast  down  her  defiance  of 
the  lovely  siren  of  the  Adriatic  shore  in  fashion  similar  to 
the  reply  of  Benedetto  Dei  to  Niccold  Ardinghelli :  "  Flor- 
ence is  more  beautiful,  and  five  hundred  and  forty  years 
older  than  your  Venice.  We  spring  from  a  triply  noble 
blood.  We  are  one  third  Roman,  one  third  Frankish,  and 
one  third  Fiesolan.  Compare  with  this,  I  pray  you,  the 
elements  of  which  you  are  composed.  First  of  all,  you 
are  Slavonian;  secondly,  Paduans  of  Antenor's  dirty 
traitor   brood;    thirdly,   fisher-folk  from  Malamocco  and 

12 


178  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Chioggia.  We  hold  by  the  Gospel  of  Saint  John,  you  by 
that  of  Saint  Mark,  in  which  there  is  as  much  difference 
as  between  fine  French  wool  and  that  with  which  mat- 
tresses are  stuffed.  We  have  round  about  us  thirty  thou- 
sand estates  owned  by  noblemen  and  merchants,  citizens 
and  craftsmen,  yielding  us  yearly  bread  and  meat,  wine 
and  oil,  vegetables  and  cheese,  hay  and  wood,  to  thji- 
value  of  nine  hundred  thousand  ducats,  as  you  Venetians, 
Genoese,  Rhodians,  and  Chians,  who  come  to  buy,  very 
well  know.  We  have  two  trades  greater  than  four  of  yours 
in  Venice  put  together,  —  wool  and  silk.  Witness  the 
Roman  court,  that  of  the  King  of  Naples,  the  Marches  and 
Sicily,  Constantinople  and  Pera,  Broussa  and  Adrianople, 
Salonica  and  Galliopolis,  Chios  and  Rhodes,  where,  to  your 
envy  and  disgust,  there  are  Florentine  consuls  and  mer- 
chants, banks  and  offices,  whither  go  more  Florentine 
wares  of  all  kinds,  especially  silken  stuffs,  and  gold  and 
silver  brocades,  than  from  Venice,  Genoa,  and  Lucca.  Ask 
your  merchants  who  visit  Marseilles,  Avignon,  Lyons, 
Provence,  Bruges,  Antwerp,  or  London,  whether  they  have 
seen  the  banks  of  the  Medici,  the  Pazzi,  Capponi,  the 
Corsini,  the  Portinari,  and  a  hundred  others  which  I  name 
not  because  I  should  require  a  ream  of  paper. " 

The  Venetian  is  pronounced  so  spiteful  that  he  might 
readily  be  mistaken  for  a  Sienese  in  his  allusion  to  Cosimo 
de*  Medici  as  being  unable  to  take  his  bonds  and  coin  into 
another  world. 

"  To-day  I  receive  the  ashes  of  Rossini  in  the  temple 
of  Santa  Croce,  celebrate  the  centenary  of  Donatello, 
wreathe  the  vast  piazza  with  roses  in  honor  of  the  com- 
pletion of  the  Duomo,"  adds  Florence  in  the  noontide  of 
the  15th  of  May,   1887. 

"  To-day  I  erect  a  statue  to  Victor  Emanuel,  and  open 
an  artistic  exhibition,"  retorts  Venice.  "The  amiable 
queen  has  baptized  the  latest  ship   '  Galileo, '  launched 


IN  THE   CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  179 

from    my    arsenal.      The    strains  of    Verdi's    *  Othello ' 
awaken  the  echoes  of  my  canals  and  limpid  lagoons." 

"The  amiable  queen  unveils  my  cathedral  facade," 
Florence  rejoins. 

Then  Venice  murmurs  low,  "  She  came  to  me  in  afflic- 
tion, and  visited  my  cholera-smitten  islands,  reviving 
drooping  courage  by  her  presence." 

Florence  is  mute  for  a  moment,  then  answers,  "Mar- 
gherita  of  Savoy  would  do  as  much  for  me  in  sorrow. " 

Venice  and  Florence,  shrines  of  fresh  artistic  homage 
in  the  Italian  springtime,  are  connected  together  by  the 
presence  of  a  great  lady.  She  embodies  herself  a  part  of 
this  springtime,  whether  enveloped  in  lace  of  Burano,  or 
decked  with  pearls  for  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore. 

In  the  Church  of  the  Lily  a  Te  Deum  had  been  cele- 
brated, with  the  unwonted  gleam  of  thousands  of  wax 
tapers  in  crystal  chandeliers.  The  ceremony  over,  the 
interior  once  more  assumed  a  familiar  aspect  of  silence 
and  darkness,  impressive  in  the  very  absence  of  ornamen- 
tation. Accepting  the  edifice  in  the  significance  of  Lom- 
bard architecture,  the  three  doors  should  signify  the 
Trinity,  the  catherine-wheel  window  the  unity  of  Christ 
as  the  light  of  the  Church,  the  crypt  the  moral  death  of 
man,  with  the  cross  as  atonement,  and  the  cupola  as 
heaven. 

The  church  is  a  Latin  cross,  with  a  great  nave,  two 
smaller  side  aisles,  two  transepts,  and  two  tribunes  out 
of  which  open  five  chapels,  with  the  dome  above.  Shadowy 
inscriptions  on  the  walls  record  the  foundation  of  the 
cathedral,  the  transfer  of  the  ashes  of  Saint  Zenobius  to 
the  spot,  the  half-effaced  epitaphs  of  the  patrons  of  the 
work.  The  tombs  of  Giotto,  Marsilio  Ficino,  Brunelles- 
chi.  Pier  Farnese,  captain  of  the  Free  Companies,  smitten 
by  plague  in  1363,  or  of  valiant  Bishop  Antonio  d'Orso, 
who  led  forth  the  canons  in  full   armor  against  Henry 


180  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

VII.,  when  Florence  was  besieged,  may  still  be  discovered. 
The  Te  Deum  of  the  day  failed  to  stir  the  dust  of  Antonio 
Squarcialupo,  "Antonio  of  the  organs,"  whose  instru- 
ments were  the  delight  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  and 
long  made  the  voice  of  such  temples.  His  best  two  or- 
gans were  burned  in  St.  Paul's  Church  of  London,  while 
he  went  to  Constantinople  to  build  another  worthy  of 
Mahomet  II. 

The  curious  monument  of  the  Englishman,  Sir  John 
Hawkswood,  is  beside  the  entrance  door,  —  the  equestrian 
figure  painted  by  Paolo  Uccello,  —  to  imitate  sculpture, 
with  gray  tints  upon  gray  to  produce  the  requisite  effect. 
Such  is  the  last  resting-place  of  the  reputed  Essex  tailor 
who  exchanged  the  needle  for  the  sword,  and  the  thimble 
for  the  shield  of  a  soldier  of  fortune,  with  such  notable 
result  as  a  funeral  given  by  grateful  Florence,  the  bier 
covered  with  red  velvet  and  cloth-of-gold,  and  borne  by 
knights  with  torches,  banners,  shields,  and  war  horses 
clothed  in  sumptuous  trappings.  Opposite  is  the  compan- 
ion work,  the  tomb  of  Niccol5  Tolentino,  by  Andrea  del 
Castagno. 

Above  the  first  door  of  the  north  aisle  is  the  funeral  urn 
of  Don  Pedro,  father  of  the  ill-fated  Eleanora  of  Toledo, 
who  died  of  supping  too  generously  on  snipe,  or  of  remon- 
strating with  his  terrible  son-in-law,  Cosimo  I.,  on  his 
conjugal  cruelties.  Beyond  the  fresco  of  Dante  expound- 
ing the  "Divina  Commedia,"  by  Domenico  di  Michelini, 
the  pupil  of  Fra  Angelico  gleams  faintly  in  the  dusk. 

A  haldacchino  of  silver  cloth  floats  over  the  main  altar, 
where  is  placed  the  crucifix  of  Benedetto  da  Majano.  The 
marbles  of  that  enclosing  balustrade,  executed  by  jealous 
Bandinelli  and  his  eighty-eight  pupils,  reveals  here  and 
there  rich  colors,  like  the  veining  of  agate  on  the  sibyls, 
prophets,  and  evangelists  grouped  in  profuse  design.  In 
the  rear  of  the  high  altar  rises  the  unfinished  group  of 


IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  181 

statuary  which  was  the  last  work  of  Michelangelo's  long 
life.  Nicodemus  and  the  Magdalene  support  the  body  of 
the  Saviour,  sinking  in  death,  with  placid  features  and 
head  crowned  with  thorns.  Wrought  from  a  column  be- 
longing to  the  Temple  of  Peace  and  gift  of  Pope  Paul  III. , 
this  entombment,  on  which  a  soft  obscurity  broods,  even 
as  incompletion  veils  the  half-defined  forms,  is  the  treas- 
ure of  the  church,  for  the  mighty  genius  that  fashioned  it 
dwarfs  all  effort  of  other  artists.  In  the  sorrowful  great- 
ness of  old  age  the  man  who  was  only  contented  when  he 
held  a  chisel  in  his  hand,  and  could  imagine  no  phase  of 
power  or  beauty  not  imprisoned  in  a  block  of  marble, 
came  at  midnight,  attached  a  candle  to  his  pasteboard  cap, 
and  worked  on  this  group  in  his  Roman  studio,  until  the 
flaw  was  discovered  which  made  him  desist. 

Yasari  was  sent  by  the  Pope,  on  the  pretext  of  obtaining 
some  sheets  of  drawings,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Christ; 
and  Michelangelo,  having  despatched  his  servant,  Urbino, 
to  find  the  designs,  dropped  the  lantern  in  order  that  the 
curiosity  of  the  visitor  should  remain  ungratified. 

"  I  am  so  old  that  death  often  pulls  me  by  the  coat  to 
come  with  him,  and  some  day  I  shall  fall  down  like  this 
lantern,  and  my  last  spark  of  life  will  be  extinguished." 
This  plaint  of  feebleness  and  infirmity  reaches  us  still, 
pausing  here  before  the  work,  the  face  of  Joseph  of  Arima- 
thea  gazing  down  upon  us  gravely  from  his  hooded  mantle, 
the  body  of  Christ  already  limp  in  insensibility,  the  agony 
of  the  followers  none  the  less  eloquent  because  half 
portrayed. 

The  place  is  sacred  to  the  art  of  this  great  soul.  The 
ceremony  of  the  day  passes;  the  tapers  burn  dim;  the 
music  of  the  Te  Deum  dies  away  to  silence  beneath  the 
roof.  The  Church  of  the  Lily,  by  virtue  of  this  unfin- 
ished group,  belongs  to  the  memory  of  Michelangelo. 

Above  the  entombment  rises  the  cupola  decorated  by 


182  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Vasari,  who  partook  of  the  sacrament  before  mounting 
the  scaffolding  for  the  perilous  labor,  completed  by  Fed- 
erigo  Zucchero.  Lacking  in  richness  of  color  and  design, 
the  frescos  still  span  that  giddy  height,  pallid  and  in- 
effective, the  target  for  the  sarcasms  of  the  poet  Lasca : 

"  Georgin,  Georgin,  you  ought  to  be  accused; 
Georgin  committed  the  sin. 
Presumptuously  he  was  the  first 
To  paint  the  cupola ; 
And  the  Florentine  people 
Will  never  cease  to  mourn 
Until  perhaps  some  day  it  may  be  covered  with  whitewash.** 

Facing  the  entombment  is  the  apse  with  the  bronze  and 
silver  cassa  beneath  the  altar,  wrought  by  Ghiberti,  as  the 
history  of  Saint  Zenobius,  and  containing  the  relics  of  the 
holy  man.  To  each  artist  his  especial  gift.  For  Ghiberti 
the  most  exquisite  modelling  of  the  goldsmith  in  metals, 
with  pictorial  perspective,  as  in  the  shrine  of  Saint 
Zenobius,  and  the  bronze  doors  of  the  opposite  Baptistery, 
a  keen  refinement  of  taste,  exulting  in  the  discovery  of 
antique  busts  and  statues,  such  as  the  Hermes,  dug  up  in 
the  Vigna  San  Celso,  and  capable  of  discerning  the  beauty 
of  classical  relics  by  the  touch  of  the  fingers ;  for  Brunel- 
leschi,  the  soaring  dome,  when  the  hampering  rivalry  of 
Ghiberti  left  him  free  to  act  alone.  How  significant  the 
difference !  The  dome  still  rises  intact  and  majestic  above 
the  cassa  of  the  goldsmith  containing  the  saint's  bones,  in 
the  cathedral  apse. 

The  lunettes  of  Luca  della  Robbia's  Resurrection  and 
Ascension  above  the  doors  of  the  two  sacristies  resemble 
cameos  in  delicacy  of  outline  and  coloring. 

On  the  right  hand  of  the  entombment  the  painted  win- 
dows of  the  south  transept  shed  a  rich  glow  on  pavement 
and  frescoed  chapel.  On  the  left  the  north  transept  treas- 
ures the  choral  books  of  Vanti  degli  Attavanti  and  Monte 


m  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  183 

di  Giovanni,  with  traces  of  the  disk  of  the  marble  slabs  in 
the  centre  of  the  pavement  of  Paolo  Toscanelli's  gnomon, 
made  in  1468  for  the  sun's  rays  to  fall  through  the  lantern 
on  the  29th  of  June,  the  period  of  the  summer  solstice. 
Toscanelli  was  the  correspondent  of  Columbus. 

In  the  Church  of  the  Lily  the  visitor  may  muse  for 
hours  on  the  events  which  have  taken  place  within 
these  walls,  so  barren  of  gilded  ornamentation,  and  so 
rich  in  memory  of  stirring  events.  Startled  groups  of 
partisans  and  enemies  may  rush  across  the  nave,  with 
sudden  clash  of  sword  and  dagger,  as  when  the  young 
Lorenzo  de'  Medici  was  rescued  from  assassins  by  his 
followers,  and  hurried  through  this  very  sacristy  door, 
while  his  brother  Giuliano  fell.  Frederick  III.  of  Ger- 
many, seated  in  state,  distributed  here  the  honors  of 
knighthood.  Charles  VIII.  of  France  was  received  be- 
neath this  dome  by  Florence. 

The  mind,  guided  by  the  eye,  swiftly  reverts  to  the 
group  of  Christ.  Here  is  the  temple,  the  shrine,  the  tomb 
of  Michelangelo.  Sorrow,  power,  grandeur  of  conception 
even  in  labors  half  defined,  —  we  have  all  the  elements  of 
soul  in  the  incomplete  mass  yonder,  breathed  upon  by 
genius,  and  left.  On  the  horizon  Rome,  with  St.  Peter's 
dominating  all  like  a  sunset  cloud,  may  be  emblematic  of 
his  fame ;  but  in  no  other  spot,  not  even  excepting  Santa 
Croce,  San  Lorenzo,  the  house  in  the  Via  Ghibellina,  does 
his  majestic  personality  acquire  the  eloquent,  pathetic 
reality  discoverable  at  the  base  of  this  group,  his  last 
work.  In  no  other  spot  do  the  scenes  of  his  life  recur 
more  vividly,  or  the  thread  of  his  familiar  story  run  more 
smoothly  than  in  the  twilight  of  the  Duomo.  Greatest  of 
the  followers  of  Savonarola,  inasmuch  as  the  power  of  the 
reformer's  words  penetrated  his  soul,  he  naturally  takes 
the  first  rank  as  honoring  the  memory  of  the  monk  of  St 
Mark's. 


184  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 

"We  see  the  Tiber  valley  with  the  chestnut  woods  slop- 
ing up  to  the  beech  forests  of  the  Apennines,  cradle  of 
the  stream;  while  below,  the  vines  sway  from  tree  to 
tree,  the  corn  ripens  to  gold  on  the  stalk,  the  gray  oxen 
draw  the  plough  through  the  furrows,  and  the  children 
tend  the  flocks  of  sheep  and  swine  by  the  wayside.  On 
the  heights  rise  the  little  towns,  rich  in  history, —  Borgo 
San  Sepolcro,  built  by  crusaders  from  Jerusalem,  or  the 
war-battered  rock  of  Citta  di  Castello,  and  Caprese,  ap- 
proached so  long  ago  by  the  Florentine  Ludovico  Buona- 
rotti,  newly  appointed  podestd,  accompanied  by  his  young 
wife,  Francesca  del  Sera,  on  horseback.  The  steed  stum- 
bled on  the  rough  path,  slipped,  and  fell,  dragging  the 
rider,  yet  the  child  known  to  the  world  as  Michelangelo 
was  born  unharmed. 

We  see  the  boy  put  out  at  nurse  with  the  wife  of  a  stone- 
mason of  Settignano,  on  the  hillside  of  the  Arno,  accord- 
ing to  a  system  incomprehensible  to  the  nurseries  of  many 
lands,  and  imbibing  from  the  breast  of  this  vigorous  foster- 
mother  an  instinctive  longing  to  wield  the  chisel,  as  he 
playiuUy  affirmed  in  later  years. 

Youth  asserted  the  right  to  try  new  wings.  Ludovico 
Buonarotti,  with  paternal  solicitude,  would  fain  choose 
the  career  of  this  strong  eaglet  fledged  in  the  nest  of  a 
commonplace  brood.  Did  not  a  similar  mature  wisdom 
intend  Guido  to  be  a  musician,  Guercino  a  mason,  Sal- 
vator  Rosa  a  priest,  Claude  Lorraine  Sipdtissier,  or  Moli^re 
a  dealer  in  old  clothes  ?  Michelangelo  was  destined  to 
become  a  scholar,  and  his  brothers  merchants.  Behold,  he 
had  known  how  to  draw  ever  since  he  could  use  his  hands, 
and  sought  the  studio  of  Domenico  Ghirlandajo,  with  his 
friend,  Granaccio,  as  naturally  and  spontaneously  as  the 
flowers  expand  to  the  sun.  In  the  choir  of  the  Church  of 
Santa  Maria  Novella  he  was  permitted  to  take  those  first 
steps  in  art  amid  the  groups  of  the  magnificent  gallery 


IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  185 

of  contemporary  portraits,  the  frescos  of  the  wall,  then 
fresh  from  the  brush  of  Ghirlandajo,  with  such  addition 
as  correcting  certain  designs  with  the  broad,  firm  outline 
of  his  own  unerring  touch.  To  make  a  study  of  Martin 
Schonganer's  plate  of  the  Temptation  of  Saint  Anthony, 
on  a  larger  plan,  was  to  eagerly  portray  from  life  the  fish 
of  the  market,  harvest  of  the  neighboring  Mediterranean 
ports,  and  render  faithfully  the  scales  of  the  horned  devils. 
The  disapproving  parent,  Ludovico,  who  degenerated  into 
the  grumbler  of  later  years,  ever  making  fresh  demands 
on  the  patience  and  generosity  of  the  son  to  aid  himself 
and  the  less  gifted  brothers,  could  only  lead  such  a  lad 
to  the  art  school  opened  in  the  garden  of  San  Marco  by 
Lorenzo  the  Magnificent. 

The  prince  of  all  the  Medicis  acquired  his  most  gracious 
aspect  in  this  garden,  genial  in  praise  and  encouragement, 
keenly  critical  of  defects,  good-humored  in  bearing  to  the 
guardian  of  the  spot,  —  the  old  Bertoldo,  faithful  pupil  and 
partisan  of  Donatello,  who  could,  on  occasion,  inform  the 
munificent  patron  tartly  that  a  cook  was  better  paid  than 
an  artist.  What  other  course  would  Lorenzo  pursue  than 
to  pat  Michelangelo  on  the  shoulder,  inspect  the  mask  of 
a  Faun,  and  pronouncing  the  physiognomy  too  youthful, 
return  next  day  to  find  the  front  teeth  knocked  out,  thus 
imparting  the  requisite  appearance  of  shrivelled  age  ? 

O  marvellous  youth,  crowned  by  a  genius  such  as  the 
world  has  rarely  been  required  to  contemplate !  The  eyes 
of  the  pupil  of  the  garden  of  St.  Mark  were  already  lifted 
to  a  goal  invisible  to  his  contemporaries.  The  pack- 
thread restraints  of  the  prudent  father  were  incapable  of 
binding  the  fluttering  pinions  of  the  eaglet,  pausing  on 
the  brink  of  the  home  nest  before  launching  forth  into 
space  in  strong,  unwavering  flight.  He  came  to  this  very 
church  to  hear  Savonarola  preach.  Ardent,  impression- 
able, profoundly  interested,  Michelangelo  was  one  of  the 


186  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

throng  of  spell-bound  listeners  thrilled  by  the  reformer's 
eloquence,  awed  by  his  denunciations  of  corruption  and 
evil,  —  imagery  awakened  in  his  own  mind  by  the  terrors 
of  the  Apocalypse  pictured  as  about  to  fall  on  Italy  for  her 
iniquities.  We  like  to  believe  that  Michelangelo  never 
forgot  the  tones  of  Savonarola's  living  voice,  and  found 
anew  the  true  bread  of  life  in  poring  over  the  sermons 
in  the  house  of  the  Via  Ghibellina,  in  old  age. 

The  earlier  Florentines  had  listened  to  commentaries 
on  Dante  in  the  same  temple,  as  the  Neapolitan  still  lends 
ear  to  the  improvisator  and  recitationist  of  the  street 
corner,  and  the  Roman  of  our  day  may  be  found  on  a 
morning  of  Lent  listening  calmly  to  the  animated  dis- 
course of  some  Franciscan  monk,  with  a  cord  knotted 
around  his  waist,  and  features  glowing  with  the  force  of 
his  own  impassioned  words. 

Here  was  an  element  more  swift  and  portentous  than 
the  emotional  surface  ripple  of  Southern  races,  in  the  mag- 
netic influence  of  a  mighty  orator  capable  of  swaying  the 
multitude  to  his  own  will.  Did  Savonarola  discern  the 
youth,  Michelangelo,  in  the  crowd  ?  Was  he  brought 
into  personal  contact  with  the  proteg^  of  the  Medici,  fos- 
tered in  the  palace  of  the  Via  Larga,  and  fed  at  the  table 
of  Lorenzo,  who  liked  to  gather  about  him  men  of  genius  ? 
Can  a  nature  as  sensitive  to  all  nobility,  to  all  quickened 
possibilities  of  good  in  others,  as  was  Savonarola's,  have 
remained  unaware  of  the  very  presence  of  the  youth,  by 
some  subtle  perception  of  a  soul  greater  than  his  own  ? 
Michelangelo  must  have  listened  calmly,  with  eye  and 
ear  open  to  new  and  profound  truths,  not  with  the  shame- 
faced defiance  of  frivolous  Fra  Benedetto,  preparing  to 
cast  away  the  musk-scented  garments  and  musical  instru- 
ments of  giddy  pleasure  for  the  cloister,  the  contrition  of 
Fra  Bartolommeo  over  his  own  studies  of  nude  forms,  the 
despair  of  Botticelli  and  Cronaca  in  maturity.     The  rays 


IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  187 

of  the  star  fell  on  the  sleeping  waters  of  conscience  in  this 
temple,  where  the  earnest  features  of  the  preacher  gazed 
forth  from  the  monk's  cowl,  as  in  the  bronze  figure  at  the 
base  of  the  Luther  monument  at  Worms,  promising  to 
adolescence  wings  and  not  crutches  in  life. 

Shaped  to  the  uses  of  art  by  the  study  of  anatomy,  and 
moulded  in  mind  and  character  by  those  sermons  in  the 
Duomo,  as  well  as  turned  to  the  study  of  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures which  bore  sublime  fruit  in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  to- 
gether with  the  intimacy  with  Dante  gained  by  reading 
aloud  to  his  friend,  Aldovrandi,  at  Bologna,  henceforth 
there  was  no  turning  back  for  one  destined  to  become  a 
part  of  Italy. 

How  curious  the  picture  of  the  times !  The  cynicism  of 
Lorenzo's  school  of  philosophy,  the  mockery  of  scepticism 
of  the  town,  do  not  appear  to  have  touched  Michelangelo. 
Respectful  and  grateful,  without  servility  to  those  gener- 
ous patrons,  the  Medicis,  the  death  of  Lorenzo  was  a 
bereavement  fraught  with  superstitious  dread. 

A  bright  star  shone  above  the  Villa  Careggi ;  a  thunder- 
clap reverberated  near  the  Duomo;  and  the  Medici  ban- 
ners felNwithin  the  sanctuary.  Cardiere,  Piero's  lute- 
player,  beheld  the  Magnificent  in  a  vision,  clad  in  black 
and  tattered  garments,  a  spectre  believed  to  warn  of  the 
son's  banishment.  At  Apulia  the  sky  of  midnight  gleamed 
with  three  suns.  At  Arezzo  a  phantom  host  of  armed 
men,  mounted  on  gigantic  horses,  fought  in  the  clouds. 
Wise  men  needed  no  portents  to  weigh  Piero  in  the  bal- 
ance, and  turn  afresh  to  the  teachings  of  Savonarola.  On 
the  22d  of  January,  1494,  the  white  flakes  having  de- 
scended on  Florence  to  a  depth  of  six  feet,  Piero  ordered 
Michelangelo  to  make  a  statue  of  snow  in  the  court  of  the 
palace.  Thus  had  the  mantle  of  the  father  fallen  on  the 
son. 

Manhood,   maturity,    old  age.      We  may  follow  each 


188  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

phase  delineated  by  many  pens,  and  in  many  languages, 
pausing  here  at  the  base  of  the  group  which  marked  the 
limit  of  all  labor.  Accepting  the  length  of  nave  from 
the  altar  to  the  entrance  door,  traversed  by  the  mechani- 
cal dove  in  the  spring  festival,  to  ignite  the  car  of  Ceres  in 
the  square,  as  emblematic  of  man's  earthly  pilgrimage, 
Michelangelo  went  forth  from  the  studio  of  Ghirlandajo 
and  the  garden  of  St.  Mark,  to  seek  ecclesiastical  Bologna 
in  political  banishment;  Rome,  which  he  dreamed  of 
transforming  on  such  a  scale  as  the  expansion  of  the  tomb 
of  Pope  Julius  into  the  later  dimensions  of  St.  Peter's; 
the  fastnesses  of  the  Carrara  Mountains,  to  wrest  from 
Nature  her  purest  marble,  and  where  he  would  fain  score 
a  cliff  facing  seaward  in  the  semblance  of  a  human  form 
for  sailors  to  discern  from  afar  over  the  blue  sea ;  to  re- 
turn to  Florence  in  dark  days  of  siege  and  famine,  protect- 
ing beautiful  San  Miniato  with  wool-sacks  and  earthworks 
as  his  bride ;  to  rest  by  the  wayside  for  a  season,  refreshed 
by  the  friendship  of  the  noble  lady,  Vittoria  Colonna; 
to  leave  "  half  of  his  soul  "  in  the  woods  of  Spoleto  in 
old  age. 

The  pencil  capable  of  imitating  the  drawings  of  ancient 
masters  did  not  falter  before  the  cartoon  of  the  soldiers 
surprised  bathing  in  the  Arno,  for  the  great  sola  of  the 
Cinque-Cento  in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  in  competition  with 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  possibly  lingered  more  tenderly 
in  the  design  made  for  Yittoria  Colonna  of  the  Madonna 
seated  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  with  her  dead  son  fallen 
from  her  knees  to  the  ground,  — that  cross  of  strange  form' 
like  a  Greek  upsilon,  the  two  arms  above  connected  by  a 
piece  of  wood  in  beams  assuming  the  mystical  form  of  the 
triangle  denoting  the  Trinity,  with  the  words  of  Dante 
appended:  "No  one  reflects  how  much  blood  it  has 
cost." 

The  brush,  scarcely  pausing  on  easel  pictures  of  now 


IN  THE   CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  189 

doubtful  authenticity,  attained  fulfilment  of  power  in 
those  vast  cycles  of  time  depicted  on  the  ceiling  of  the 
Sistine  Chapel,  while  the  sibyls  and  prophets,  colossal 
and  severe,  grouped  about  the  cornice,  still  seem  to  con- 
template the  world  outspread  below,  and  was  once  more 
wielded,  after  a  lapse  of  thirty  years,  to  complete  the 
gloomy  and  terrible  Last  Judgment  of  the  altar. 

If  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon  suggested  that  of  Santa 
Maria  del  Fiore,  and  the  cupola  of  St.  Peter  resulted,  the 
mind  of  Michelangelo  combined  the  true  value  of  archi- 
tecture, painting,  and  sculpture,  in  the  union  of  the 
sacristy  of  San  Lorenzo,  the  niches  of  the  Medici,  bordered 
by  double,  fluted  pilasters,  the  spaces  between  these  pilas- 
ters and  pillars  used  for  shallow  niches  in  the  corners 
and  for  statues,  the  capitals  surmounted  by  a  balustrade- 
like ornament,  and  projecting  cornice  of  dark  marble 
wherein  to  frame  the  wall  like  a  picture.  Tribold  failed 
to  execute  the  statues  of  Heaven  and  Earth,  Silvio  Cosini 
left  the  capitals  unfinished,  as  did  Giovanni  da  Udine 
the  gold  and  stucco,  with  arabesques  of  masks,  birds,  and 
leaves.  II  Penseroso  needs  none  of  these  accessories,  as 
he  sits  and  muses  with  "  everlasting  shadow  on  his  face  " 
and  those  guardian  forms  at  his  feet. 

The  pen,  transcribing  noble  verse  from  early  youth  to 
the  sonnets  of  Vasari,  found  imperishable  expression  in 
the  lines  attached  to  the  statue  of  Night:  — 

"  Sleep  is  dear  to  me,  and  still  more  that  I  am  stone,  so  long 
as  shame  and  dishonor  last  among  us.  The  happiest  fate  is  to 
see,  to  hear  nothing ;  therefore  waken  me  not,  speak  gently." 

The  chisel  that  traced  the  furrows  in  the  countenance  of 
the  Faun,  the  sleeping  Cupid,  the  drunken  Bacchus,  com- 
pleted the  Piet^  of  St.  Peter's,  the  David,  wrought  from 
the  block  left  of  the  Duomo  those  mighty  figures  of  the 
Medici  tombs  in  San  Lorenzo,  the  Moses  of  St.  Peter  in 


190  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Vincoli.  and  hovered  over  countless  masses  of  marble, 
with  decisive  stroke  here  and  there,  half  liberating  the 
idea  imprisoned  within  the  inanimate  surface,  waiting  to 
be  set  free  by  the  master's  will,  until  laid  aside  forever 
with  the  group  before  us. 

In  the  twilight  of  the  church  slight  effort  of  imagination 
is  requisite  to  people  the  vast  and  barren  interior  with 
those  colossal  works  representing  the  completion  of  a 
whole,  —  the  youthful  giant-slayer,  nerved  to  heroism  in 
his  slender  strength ;  the  smooth-limbed  god  of  the  vine 
sipping  the  brimming  chalice ;  those  majestic  symbols  of 
Time  hewn  out  in  morbid  haste  and  a  frenzy  of  work, 
Life  and  Death,  Suffering  and  Oblivion;  the  Law-Giver 
holding  the  tablets  of  Mount  Sinai,  the  embodiment  of 
virile  strength. 

In  the  twilight  of  the  church  the  human  shapes,  ren- 
dered familiar  to  us  by  portraiture,  surely  gather  to  watch 
the  progress  of  that  solitary  figure  toward  the  goal: 
Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  prince  and  statesman,  in  the 
benevolent  guise  of  patron ;  Pope  Julius  11. ,  exacting  and 
irascible  in  delay;  Vittoria  Colonna,  noble  of  feature, 
clad  in  black  velvet,  with  her  white  veil  of  a  widow. 

These  he  left  on  the  road,  leaves  garnered  to  the  grave. 
He  was  alone  when  the  chisel  dropped  from  the  relaxed 
fingers,  the  day's  labor  finished,  having  outlived  kindred, 
friends,  memories,  regretful,  sorrowful,  and  sweet.  The 
greatness  of  earth  had  grown  terribly  small  to  age.  He 
may  have  realized,  with  Sophocles,  that  death  was  the  true 
birth.  Even  then  the  upright,  undimmed  conscience  of 
the  man  found  clearest  utterance :  life  had  brought  him,  a 
frail  bark,  over  stormy  seas  to  port,  and  strict  account 
must  be  given  hereafter  of  every  deed  done  in  the  flesh. 

Dante  stands  yonder  in  the  quaint  fresco  of  the  wall, 
expounding  the  "  Divina  Commedia. "  Savonarola  preached 
in  that  pulpit,  the  echo  of  his  words  still  alive  in  the  hearts 


IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  LILY.  191 

of  men.  Michelangelo,  the  outward  expression  in  form  and 
color  of  both,  wrought  the  group  in  the  shadow  of  the  high 
altar. 

Let  us  leave  the  Church  of  the  Lily  in  the  keeping  of 
the  august  trio,  — the  poet  with  his  sensitive,  aquiline 
features  and  brow  laurel-bound;  the  reformer,  with  his 
eager  and  kindling  glance  piercing  sluggish  souls  as  with 
fire  and  sword;  the  artist,  with  the  stern  and  furrowed 
physiognomy  grown  bleak,  urging  Art's  chariot  wheels  to 
fresh  progress. 

We  emerged  by  the  door  opposite  the  Street  of  the  Water- 
melon. The  lions  support  the  columns  of  the  porch,  with 
the  Madonna  above  and  the  old  man  holding  the  open 
book. 

The  sunset  hour  had  come,  and  the  day  embraced, 
adopted  the  completed  edifice.  The  new  facade  sparkled 
in  the  rosy  reflections  of  upper  air ;  but  the  shadow  of  the 
vast  pile  fell  from  dome  and  flank  in  a  soft  and  mellowing 
harmony  emblematic  of  the  influence  of  time,  the  touch 
of  the  centuries. 

Those  airy  postmen,  the  carrier-pigeons,  had  winged 
their  flight  far  with  the  news  of  the  morning.  In  the 
peal  of  the  vesper  bell  all  that  gracious  sisterhood  of 
cathedral  towns  greeted  Florence  with  a  responsive  note, 
—  Siena,  Lucca,  Pisa,  and  a  fainter  vibration  borne  on  the 
wind  from  distant  Parma,  Modena,  and  Cremona. 


192  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNa 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  CHRIST  CHILD. 


A  BOY  pauses  beneath  the  window,  and  thrusts  a  bit  of 
palm  through  the  grating,  while  a  sudden  smile  irra- 
diates his  dark  and  mobile  features. 

The  Florentine  boy  is  not  expansive,  as  a  rule,  with  the 
wheedling  softness  of  the  South.  He  more  frequently 
possesses  the  airy  mockery  of  a  citizen  of  the  world,  criti- 
cal of  his  neighbor,  and  is  inspired  with  an  innate  and  im- 
measurable sense  of  personal  superiority  to  all  foreigners. 
The  Florentine  boy  still  sings  through  the  streets  those 
doggerel  rhymes  of  the  hour  caught  from  the  satires  of  the 
press,  or  the  gibes  of  the  puppet  theatre,  at  the  expense  of 
all  the  world,  especially  the  eccentric  tourist.  This  lad 
has  reason  for  gratitude  to  the  occupant  of  the  window, 
and  shows  it  in  a  swift  and  unexpected  way  by  thrusting 
the  bit  of  palm,  blessed  at  the  Church  of  St.  Mark,  through 
the  bars,  and  running  away. 

The  boy,  ten  years  of  age,  is  an  apprentice  of  a  jeweller 
on  the  Ponte  Yecchio,  in  one  of  those  tiny  nooks  of  shops 
overlooking  the  tawny  tide  of  river,  where  turquoise  and 
ruby  still  are  set. 

Yesterday  a  small  package  lying  on  the  pavement  of  an 
unfrequented  byway  attracted  the  notice  of  the  writer. 
Instead  of  keen-eyed  saddler,  cobbler,  or  locksmith  at 
work  in  some  dark  shop,  or  hovering  thief  of  the  San 
Frediano  quarter,  alert  to  rob  purse  and  casement,  the 
abstracted  stranger  in  search  of  suppressed  cloister  and 


THE  CHRIST  CHH^D.  193 

historical  site  picked  up  the  package,  opened  the  box,  and 
discovered  several  gold  chains. 

Kule  demanded  taking  the  treasure  to  the  questura,  or 
the  nearest  guard,  one  of  those  dignified  persons  in  cocked 
hats  who  stand  on  the  Lung'  Arno,  the  Via  Tornabuoni, 
and  in  the  Cascine.  No  guard  was  visible,  and  the  name 
of  the  jeweller  was  pasted  in  the  lid  of  the  box.  To  seek 
the  shop  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  and  deliver  the  package  to 
the  owner,  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments. 

The  jeweller,  one  of  those  old  Florentines  with  a  refined 
and  sagacious  face,  spectacles  on  aquiline  nose,  was  exam- 
ining a  string  of  pearls.  A  small  boy,  pale,  distrustful, 
and  terrified,  appeared  in  the  distance.  He  had  been 
intrusted  with  the  box,  and  lost  it,  his  youthful  mind 
tempted  astray  by  some  diversion  against  which  his 
nature  was  not  proof. 

The  master  was  profuse  in  courteous  thanks,  while  his 
countenance  acquired  an  expression  of  severity.  The 
small  boy  cannot  have  been  annihilated  for  his  delinquen- 
cies, for  he  has  just  brought  the  palm-branch,  in  the  flesh, 
and  in  possession  of  all  his  bones.  By  what  instinct  of 
gratitude  did  he  find  his  way  to  the  Florence  Window  ? 
Did  he  obey  a  childish  impulse  of  gratitude  in  presenting 
the  bit  of  palm  to  the  stranger  who  proved  an  unexpected 
angel  of  deliverance  in  his  career  ?  How  did  he  divine 
that  the  palm  would  possess  a  peculiar  significance  as  com- 
ing from  Savonarola's  Church  of  St.  Mark  on  Palm  Sunday? 
Evidently  the  chubby  apprentice  has  a  poetical  soul. 

Accepting  the  spray  of  palm,  and  turning  it  in  idle 
fingers,  the  image  of  the  small  apprentice  lingers  after  he 
has  departed  from  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon.  Alert 
and  inconsequent,  with  all  his  precocious  intelligence,  a 
grain  of  the  old  Attic  salt  of  street  repartee  degenerated 
into  sheer  impertinence  on  his  tongue,  he  forms  a  link 
with  the  past  full  of  interest. 

13 


194  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  richest  page  of  Florentine  history  is  that  of  child* 
hood.  Has  any  other  city,  including  the  surrounding  coun- 
try, ever  produced  an  equal  number  of  wonderful  boys  ? 

Dante  ranks  first,  the  sensitive  poet  of  nine  years,  who 
received  the  image  of  the  little  Beatrice  in  his  soul,  as 
she  appeared  in  her  crimson  robe  at  the  spring  festival,  in 
the  mystical  rapture  transmuted  to  posterity  through  the 
medium  of  verse,  as  light  blends,  separates,  assumes  new 
forms  and  dimensions,  until  absorbed  into  the  full  efful- 
gence of  the  sun  in  the  paradise  of  mature  manhood. 
Dante  believed  in  God,  in  virtue,  in  his  country,  in  love, 
in  glory,  and  in  the  destiny  of  the  human  race ;  but  the 
old  story,  forever  fresh,  is  that  life  began  for  him  when 
his  eyes  first  met  those  of  Beatrice.  He  is  the  pure  source 
of  the  sentiment  of  chivalry  of  the  knight-errant  inherent 
in  the  breast  of  every  boy,  who  builds  air-castles  and 
dreams  of  the  adventure  of  having  some  fair  lady  to  pro- 
tect with  drawn  sword  and  clash  of  conflict. 

When  will  the  brush  of  modern  artists  cease  to  find 
fresh  inspiration  in  delineating  the  charming  history  of 
little  Giotto,  the  shepherd,  discovered  drawing  the  por- 
trait of  one  of  his  own  sheep  on  a  flat  stone,  with  a  bit  of 
chalk,  by  Cimabue  riding  along  on  his  good  mule,  clad  in 
mantle  and  peaked  hood  ?  Had  not  Cimabue  taken  that 
ride  in  the  country,  as  the  human  instrument  of  destiny, 
and  fetched  the  lad  to  Florence  for  instruction,  all  Italy 
and  the  world  would  have  been  robbed  of  the  Campanile, 
the  frescos  of  Santa  Croce,  the  decorations  of  the  churches 
of  Assisi  or  Padua. 

Andrea  del  Castagno,  born  in  1390,  in  a  hamlet  of 
Mugello,  was  the  son  of  a  poor  laborer  of  St.  Andrea  a 
Linari.  Early  left  an  orphan,  the  boy  tended  the  flocks  of 
his  cousin  near  Castagno.  How  suggestive  the  picture 
of  this  little  shepherd  also,  whose  name,  del  Castagno,  is 
associated  with  the  shadow  of  chestnut  woods,  the  ripen- 


THE  CHRIST  CHILD.  195 

Ing  of  the  vine,  the  garnering  of  the  Tuscan  harvest.  The 
humble  lot  of  the  peasant,  healthy  and  ignorant  of  the 
powers  dormant  within  him,  would  have  been  his  portion 
had  he  not  chanced  upon  an  itinerant  painter  at  work  on 
a  wayside  tabernacle. 

Andrea,  fired  to  emulation  of  this  new  gift,  began  to 
scratch  rude  figures  on  wall  and  rock.  These  designs 
doubtless  resembled  the  drawing  of  a  child  on  a  slate,  or 
the  first  tracings  of  primitive  races  in  caves,  and  on  the 
bark  of  trees. 

Bernardetto  de'  Medici,  seeing  the  work,  took  the  boy 
to  the  universal  art-mother,  Florence,  for  nourishment, 
where,  as  a  realistic  painter,  he  became  a  follower  of 
Uccelli,  and  executed  the  equestrian  monument  of  Niccolo 
Tolentino,  in  imitation  of  statuary,  as  a  companion  work 
to  the  tomb  of  Sir  John  Hawkwood. 

With  the  life  stain  on  Andrea  del  Castagno  of  having 
learned  the  new  process  of  oil  painting  of  Domenico  da 
Venezia,  and  then  murdered  the  fellow-artist  in  the  dark, 
whether  truth  or  calumny,  we  need  not  deal.  The  lad 
tending  the  flock  in  the  shade  of  chestnut-trees,  and 
watching  the  itinerant  painter  at  work  daubing  a  wayside 
shrine,  with  instinctive  awakening  of  curiosity  and  emula- 
tion, is  the  image  of  childhood  treasured  in  the  memory. 

Andrea  Contucci  da  Sansovino,  born  a  sculptor  and 
architect,  modelled  sheep  in  clay  or  soft  mould.  Simone 
Vespucci,  sent  as  podestd  to  the  little  mountain  village 
near  the  Monte  Sansovino,  saw  the  boy's  efforts,  and 
brought  him  to  Florence  to  place  with  Antonio  del  Polla- 
juolo.  Sansovino  also  studied  in  the  art  school  of  the 
Medici  garden.  The  boy,  discovered  by  Vespucci,  went 
far,  —  to  Rome,  to  Portugal,  to  the  House  of  Loretto ;  but 
he  always  retained  a  love  of  the  hillside,  the  woods ;  and 
when  fame  brought  him  wealth,  he  retired  to  the  country 
for  four  months  of  the  year. 


196  THE  LILY  OP  THE  ARNO. 

Lesser  patrons  among  Florentine  citizens  than  the 
Medici,  the  names  of  Cimabue  or  Vespucci  acquire  an 
unique  interest  in  connection  with  their  prot^g^s;  nor 
should  Vecchietti  be  overlooked,  who  received  the  young 
stranger,  Giovanni  da  Bologna,  into  his  house  for  a  term 
of  two  years,  the  mansion  in  the  dismantled  Ghetto  with 
the  grotesque  devil  on  the  corner. 

Whence  is  derived  the  impression  of  Italian  indo- 
lence ?  Not  from  the  peasant  toiling  in  the  fields  from 
Umbria  to  the  Lombardy  plain.  Perhaps  the  phase  of 
dolcefar  niente  has  passed  away.  Consider  the  life  of  the 
Florentine  boy  of  the  time  of  Savonarola.  Fra  Bartolom- 
meo,  called  Baccio  della  Porta,  because  he  lived  near  the 
Roman  gate,  was  apprenticed  to  Cosimo  Rosselli  at  the 
age  of  nine  years,  and  expected  to  be  the  head  of  his 
family  at  twelve.  Rueful  little  Andrea  del  Sarto,  bound 
to  the  grim  and  fantastic  Pier  di  Cosimo,  when  seven 
years  old,  escaped  occasionally  to  the  congenial  atmos- 
phere of  the  Church  of  the  Carmine  to  study  in  the  Bran- 
cacci  Chapel.  Ghirlandajo  received  the  pretty  name  of 
the  gold  and  silver  wreaths  fashioned  in  the  hottega  of 
his  father,  by  which  he  is  ever  known  as  a  great  master. 

How  small  the  shrill-voiced  apprentice  still  is!  The 
tiny  mason,  with  his  jacket  slung  over  one  shoulder  in 
a  professional  manner,  slouches  along  the  pavement  imitat- 
ing the  heavy  gait  of  his  patron.  The  embryo  milkman 
and  baker's  boy  in  aprons  wheel  their  little  carts  about 
the  streets  of  a  morning,  able  to  match  quick  wits  with  all 
the  town.  In  no  other  city  are  the  new  coat  of  the  tailor 
or  the  new  boots  of  the  shoemaker  sent  to  their  destina- 
tions by  so  wee  an  emissary  as  in  Florence. 

That  the  trust  is  occasionally  misplaced,  in  the  giddy 
volatility  of  urchinhood,  is  proved  by  the  jeweller's  box 
reposing  on  the  curbstone,  while  the  apprentice  tossed 
coppers  elsewhere.     Sometimes  a  crowd  gathers  about  the 


THE  CHRIST  CHILD.  197 

dark  shop  on  a  narrow  street,  where  an  irate  carpenter  or 
locksmith  has  just  thrashed  a  delinquent  'prentice,  until 
the  guards  have  interfered,  with  a  bevy  of  sympathetic 
women,  headed  by  an  injured  mother.  As  a  rule,  the  boy 
is  the  natural  growth  of  the  baby,  so  early  established  on 
his  own  legs,  and  who  pauses  to  dust  his  shoes  on  a  holi- 
day, with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  in  imitation  of  his 
father,  at  an  age  when  the  infants  of  other  lands  are 
viewed  with  maternal  pride  if  able  to  toddle  on  dimpled 
feet.     Beauty  of  youth! 

If  we  placed  together  the  portraits  of  the  Cardinal 
Riario,  Ippolito  de'  Medici,  and  Cesare  Borgia,  as  embody- 
ing physical  beauty,  the  study  would  be  interesting.  To 
group,  instead,  the  heads  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Michel- 
angelo, and  possibly  Benvenuto  Cellini,  would  be  to  add 
the  aureole  of  genius,  before  which  the  flesh-tints  of  the 
youthful  prelates  must  fade. 

This  quicksilver  element  of  childhood  in  the  Florentine 
population,  pervading  all  the  centuries,  was  discerned  and 
estimated  at  its  true  value  by  Savonarola.  His  inter- 
course with  youth  furnishes  one  of  the  most  curious  pages 
of  his  time.  The  purity  and  delicacy  of  Savonarola's 
own  nature  found  an  instinctive  affinity  with  the  children. 
When  he  had  attained  the  zenith  of  his  power,  and  the 
multitude  swayed  to  his  will,  men  and  women  alike  shrink- 
ing from  the  awful  denunciation  of  evil  launched  from  the 
pulpit  of  the  Duomo,  he  still  despaired  of  elevating  those 
about  him  to  the  lofty  standard  which  rendered  Christ 
the  only  worthy  ruler  of  the  city.  The  words  of  Samuel 
were  ever  in  his  mind:  — 

**  He  that  ruleth  over  men  must  be  just,  ruling  in  the  fear  of 
God. 

"  And  he  shall  be  as  the  light  of  the  morning,  when  the  sun 
riseth,  even  a  morning  without  clouds :  as  the  tender  grass 
springing  out  of  the  earth  by  clear  shining  after  rain." 


198  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Where  among  the  Florentines  was  Savonarola  to  find 
this  ruler  ?  The  preacher  capable  of  stamping  indelibly 
the  impression  of  great  moral  truths  on  the  opening  soul 
of  the  young  Michelangelo,  the  teacher  who  had  instructed 
the  novices  with  peculiar  tenderness  in  the  cloister  gar- 
den, turned  to  the  children,  full  of  precocious  talent, 
germs  of  undeveloped  greatness,  and  yet  ever  ready  to 
reflect,  chameleon-like,  the  public  mood  of  the  moment. 

Dividing  the  sheep  from  the  goats  in  the  flock,  a  part 
of  these  children  undoubtedly  ebbed  back  to  the  sea  of 
turbulence  and  corruption  of  the  day,  while  the  other 
half  remained  faithful  to  the  teachings  transmitted  to 
their  descendants.  The  balance  of  good  and  evil  in 
human  gratitude  was  displayed  by  the  boys,  thrusting 
sharpened  sticks  through  the  apertures  in  the  boards  of 
the  platform  leading  to  the  funeral  pyre,  to  wound  the 
feet  of  the  reformer,  while  wreaths  of  flowers  were  placed 
on  the  spot  for  centuries  on  the  anniversary  of  his 
martyrdom. 

The  sprig  of  palm  belongs  to  the  early  freshness  of  the 
Italian  springtime.  The  faithful  of  the  creed  of  the  land 
behold  in  it  the  triumphant  entry  of  Christ  into  Jerusa- 
lem seated  on  the  ass,  while  the  people  spread  branches 
before  him. 

At  Rome,  the  ceremonials  at  St.  Peter's  will  conclude 
with  the  distribution  of  the  palm  blessed  by  the  Pontiff. 
The  palms  sent  from  San  Remo  —  the  privilege  of  the 
Bresca  family  since  the  sailor  of  the  name  bade  the  archi- 
tect, Fontana,  wet  the  straining  rope  used  to  raise  the 
Vatican  obelisk  —  have  been  distributed,  and  will  be 
kept  to  protect  the  house,  the  fields,  the  person  of  the 
recipient,  from  accident. 

How  significant  the  changes  of  progress!  Formerly 
the  palms  arrived  in  a  vessel  anchored  at  the  Ripa 
Grande ;  to-day  the  harvest  is  despatched  as  prosaic  freight 


THE  CHRIST  CHILD.  199 

by  rail  from  Genoa.     Should  the  palm  belong  to  any 
creed  ? 

We  leave  the  Street  of  the  "Watermelon,  pass  the  Bap- 
tistery, where  a  little  citizen  is  being  carried  at  the 
moment,  as  was  once  the  infant  Dante,  traverse  the  Via 
Calzajuoli,  the  wide  Piazza  Signoria,  and  by  the  magnifi- 
cent colonnade  of  the  Ufiizi,  reach  the  Arno  bank.  White 
clouds,  wind-driven,  traverse  the  sky  and  cast  shadows 
on  the  opaque  current  of  the  stream;  snow  still  lingers 
on  the  summit  of  the  Pratomagno  above  Vallombrosa. 

A  group  of  country  folk  emerge  from  their  favorite 
Chapel  of  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie  on  the  right.  A 
company  of  Bersagliere,  with  cocks'  feathers  fluttering  in 
the  breeze,  march  rapidly  along  the  Lung'  Arno  della 
Zecca  to  their  barracks,  with  the  sharp  note  of  the  bugle. 

We  cross  the  Grazie  Bridge,  where  the  cells  of  the  nuns 
have  long  been  swept  away,  and  the  modern  tramway 
taken  possession,  and  pause  at  the  Torrigiani  Palace. 
The  spray  of  palm  guides  us,  —  a  wand  possessing  magi- 
cal properties. 

The  Torrigiani  Palace  is  situated  on  the  Piazza  Mozzi, 
and  was  designed  by  Baccio  d'Agnolo,  the  family  belong- 
ing to  the  Guild  of  Vintners  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
The  exterior  is  not  magnificent,  while  the  modern  luxury 
of  the  interior  suggests  the  date  of  the  First  Empire,  an 
impression  only  redeemed  by  the  treasures  of  art  in  the 
suite  of  rooms  open  to  visitors.  If  the  Corsini  palaces  of 
Rome  and  Florence  seem  ever  to  bask  in  golden  sunshine 
further  reflected  on  the  amber  satin  of  hangings,  the 
heavy  gilding  of  cornice  and  furniture,  the  Torrigiani 
should  be  characterized  as  the  Palace  of  the  Bridal  Chest. 
Here  are  preserved  some  of  the  coffers  so  quaintly  deco- 
rated for  the  trousseaux  of  mediaeval  brides  by  famous 
painters  of  their  time.  Pontormo  adorned  cabinets  and 
cassone ;  the  brush  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli  traced  the  triumph 


200  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

of  David;  Baccio  d'Agnolo  carved  coffers,  chairs,  and 
bedsteads ;  at  the  hottega  of  Ridolf o  Ghirlandajo  any  work 
of  art  could  be  ordered. 

Savonarola  exclaimed,  "  Do  not  let  your  daughters  pre- 
pare their  corredo  (trousseau)  in  chests  adorned  with 
pagan  paintings.  Is  it  right  for  a  Christian  spouse  to  be 
familiar  with  Venus  before  the  Virgin,  or  Mars  before  the 
saints  ?  " 

In  Florence,  the  bridal  city,  the  marble  and  alabaster 
of  whose  churches  were  compared  by  Michelangelo  to  the 
fair  radiance  of  the  bride,  what  pageants  may  have  been 
associated  with  the  fading  tints  of  these  very  cassone  ! 

The  tragedy  of  the  fair  Ginevra,  hiding  in  her  wedding 
chest,  which  proved  her  coffin,  finds  a  deep  tinge  of  vio- 
lence and  passion  in  the  desolated  betrothed  of  the  mur- 
dered Buondelmonte. 

A  gracious  vision,  at  which  the  world  still  smiles 
wherever  beheld,  sweeps  through  the  lofty  apartments  of 
the  old  palazzoy  swift,  evanescent,  the  filmy  tissue  of  a 
bridal  veil. 

Clarice  Orsini,  arrived  from  Rome  to  wed  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent,  wears  once  more  her  robe  of  white  and  gold 
brocade,  with  the  sumptuous  mantle.  Feasting  and  danc- 
ing take  place  before  the  Riccardi  Palace,  and  the  sym- 
bolical olive-tree  is  raised  to  an  upper  window. 

Margaret  of  Austria,  daughter  of  the  Emperor  Charles 
v.,  and  bride  of  Alessandro  de'  Medici,  is  borne  along  in 
a  magnificent  litter  by  forty  young  men,  clad  in  rich  cos- 
tumes, on  the  June  day. 

Violante  of  Ba.varia  enters  the  Porta  San  Gallo  in  a 
car  studded  with  gems,  to  espouse  Gian  Gastone. 

Scanning  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  we  find  the  object 
of  our  visit  to  the  Torrigiani  Gallery  in  the  third  room. 
This  is  the  portrait  of  a  man  with  a  fine  and  expressive 
face,  wearing  a  dark  dress  and  cap,  with  a  pale  landscape 


THE  CHRIST   CHILD.  201 

for  background.  The  work,  ascribed  to  Leonardo  da 
Yinci,  or  more  probably  to  Lorenzo  di  Credi,  is  the  por- 
trait of  Girolamo  Benivieni,  the  Florentine  gentleman, 
the  friend  of  Savonarola,  whom  Benivieni  esteemed  as  a 
saint  and  a  prophet. 

Born  in  1453,  Girolamo  Benivieni,  poet  and  scholar, 
was  intimate  with  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent  and  the  phi- 
losophers of  his  court.  He  attained  the  advanced  age  of 
ninety  years  in  troubled  times.  The  active  partisans  of 
Savonarola,  prepared  to  defend  his  sanctity  with  sword 
and  breast,  might  have  cast  at  Benivieni  the  reproach 
addressed  to  Erasmus  by  Luther  of  wishing  to  walk  upon 
eggs  without  crushing  them,  and  among  glasses  without 
breaking,  yet  he  had  the  moral  courage  to  write  a  letter 
to  Clement  VII.,  reminding  him  of  a  promise  to  give 
desolated  Florence  a  liberal  form  of  government,  and 
further  recommending  the  memory  of  the  poor  brother  of 
St.  Mark's.  The  life  of  Benivieni  escaped  the  result  of 
such  temerity,  and  he'  was  buried  in  the  Church  of  St. 
Mark,  beside  Pico  della  Mirandola  and  Politian. 

Benivieni  is  chiefly  known  as  a  religious  poet,  and  the 
composer  of  the  lauds  or  canticles  sung  by  the  processions 
of  children  organized  in  bands  by  Savonarola  to  redeem 
the  city  from  existing  wickedness,  and  sow  the  seed  of 
virtue  for  a  rising  generation.  The  children  were  the 
chosen  instrument  to  carry  light  into  dark  places. 

The  old  Girolamo  Benivieni  steps  down  from  the  picture- 
frame  in  the  Torrigiani  Gallery,  and  seems  to  say,  smil- 
ing benevolently,  "  Behold  my  work  as  a  man  of  my 
time."  We  obey,  as  much  bewildered  as  edified  by  the 
spectacle. 

We  are  led  back  across  the  Grazie  Bridge,  through  the 
arcades  of  the  Uffizi,  along  the  Via  Calzajuoli,  and  having 
gained  the  Duomo,  turn  to  the  left  instead  of  regaining 
the  Street  of  the  Watermelon  in  the  shadow  on  the  right 


202  THE  LILY   OF  THE  ARNO. 

hand.  Following  the  Via  Cerretani  for  a  space,  the 
Borgo  San  Lorenzo  is  reached. 

Noisy,  dirty,  and  more  populous  than  formerly,  owing 
to  the  vicinity  of  the  new  market  established  in  the  quar- 
ter of  late  years,  the  Borgo  still  possesses  characteristic 
traits.  The  chief  fruiterer  of  the  city  and  his  wife  stand 
on  the  threshold,  where  they  welcomed  the  Emperor  of 
Brazil  on  one  of  his  matutinal  rambles  of  the  inquiring 
traveller. 

They  are  a  handsome  couple,  fresh,  buxom,  and  gray- 
haired,  undisturbed  alike  by  the  clamor  of  venders  and  the 
wasps  of  children  hanging  about  the  luscious  fruits  dis- 
played in  the  doorway. 

The  centre  of  sale  for  native  linen,  coarse,  fragrant,  and 
durable,  and  the  long  festoons  of  narrow  bands  for  swad- 
dling new-born  infants,  second-hand  furniture,  hemp-cloth, 
and  black,  yawning  cellars,  fringed  with  such  wares  as  old 
clothes  and  shoes,  where  the  inmates  appear  at  the  top  of 
flights  of  stone  steps,  and  dive  again  into  obscure  depths 
like  trap-door  spiders,  the  short  thoroughfare  opens  on  the 
Square  of  San  Lorenzo,  irregular  in  form,  and  surrounded 
by  lofty  and  faded  houses,  with  loggie  and  terraces.  At 
one  corner  is  the  statue  of  Giovanni  delle  Bande  Nere, 
wounded  unto  death  at  the  battle  of  Mantua,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-nine  years. 

The  splendor  of  the  Medici  expenditure  is  not  apparent 
on  the  exterior  of  the  Church  of  San  Lorenzo,  however 
rich  the  mausoleum  entirely  incrusted  with  precious  mar- 
bles and  mosaic,  the  sacristy  containing  Michelangelo's 
mighty  statues,  and  the  Laurentian  Library,  with  its 
stained-glass  windows  shedding  light  on  the  Pandects  of 
Justinian  or  Petrarch's  letters. 

The  edifice  due  to  the  Christian  matron,  Giuliana,  who 
vowed  to  erect  a  church  to  Saint  Laurence  if  granted  chil- 
dren, and  the  first  basilica,  built  in  373,  was  blessed  by 


THE  CHRIST  CHILD.  203 

Saint  Ambrose,  and  finally  remodelled  by  Brunelleschi  in 
1435.  The  lofty  beauty  of  the  interior  atones  for  all 
external  roughness  and  insignificance.  Above  the  door 
leading  to  the  cloister  is  the  singing  gallery  inlaid  with 
rock-crystal  and  colored  marbles  by  Verrocchio.  The 
two  bronze  pulpits  of  Donatello  and  Bertoldo,  placed  for 
theological  disputants,  were  removed  to  their  present  site 
when  Leo  X.  visited  Florence.  Thorwaldsen's  monument 
to  Benvenuti,  the  most  eminent  Italian  painter  of  this 
century,  reveals  Painting  in  the  act  of  dropping  her 
palette.  Porphyry  covers  the  spot  where  Cosimo  the 
Elder  lies  before  the  main  altar,  and  enshrines  in  sump- 
tuous form  the  Grand-duchess  Maria  Anna,  wife  of  Leo- 
pold II.  At  the  extremity  of  the  north  transept  is  the 
Chapel  of  the  Sacrament,  containing  the  rich  altar  by 
Desiderio  da  Settignano.  Above  is  placed  the  little  statue 
of  the  Christ  Child,  once  carried  in  the  processions  of  the 
children,  when  the  lauds  of  Girolamo  Benivieni  were 
sung. 

The  Christ  Child  stands  with  head  bent  and  smiling 
lips,  blessing  his  worshippers.  One  hand  is  raised,  with 
two  fingers  and  the  thumb  extended  in  the  act  of  benedic- 
tion, while  the  other  holds  the  nails  and  the  crown  of 
thorns.  The  feet  rest  upon  a  cloud  which  descends  on  a 
sacramental  cup.  An  angel  bows  in  adoration  on  either 
side. 

The  statue  is  placed  too  high  for  close  inspection ;  but 
all  observers  have  been  moved  to  pleasurable  emotion  in 
contemplation  of  the  tenderness  and  perfection  of  the  Cresu 
bambino.  The  work  has  been  attributed  to  Donatello  and 
to  Desiderio  da  Settignano.  The  sweetness  and  grace  are 
characteristic  of  the  latter ;  the  rounded  limbs,  the  polished 
surface,  the  Italian  morbidezza,  all  seem  to  speak  of  the 
artist,  son  of  the  stone-cutter  of  Settignano,  whose  ideally 
perfect  plants  of  Tuscany,  introduced  into  many  of  his 


204  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

works,  seem  to  linger  in  tradition  in  the  Florentine  studio 
of  our  day,  where  the  sealpellino  can  readily  chisel  any 
flower  or  plant  designated  on  the  base  of  a  pedestal. 
Desiderio  da  Settignano  was  praised  by  Raphael's  father 
as  the  "  brave  Desiderio,  so  amiable  and  beautiful. "  Per- 
haps the  sculptor  breathed  some  of  his  own  nature  into  the 
creation  of  the  Christ  Child. 

The  poet,  Girolamo  Benivieni,  while  an  orthodox  Chris- 
tian, sought  to  give  to  his  work  the  spirit  of  the  Greek 
philosophy  that  had  ruled  the  age  in  which  he  had  grown 
up.  Feo  Belcari  had  been  the  leader  of  his  youth.  Savon- 
arola and  Pico  della  Mirandola  were  the  later  stars  of 
his  path.  A  steadfast  friend,  he  sang  of  Belcari 's  death, 
still  defended  the  doctrines  of  Savonarola  thirty  years 
after  the  reformer  was  burned,  and  chose  to  be  buried 
beside  Pico.  Sonnets,  canticles,  eclogues,  and  songs 
flowed  from  his  pen  during  his  long  life.  He  translated 
the  Psalms  into  rhyme,  remodelled  one  of  Boccaccio's 
novels  into  stanzas,  and  made  poetical  reproductions  from 
Greek  and  Latin.  His  lauds,  tinged  with  mysticism, 
touched  the  limit  of  frenzy  at  times,  and  were  sung  in  the 
streets,  to  counteract  the  evil  influence  of  the  carnival 
ditties.     Certain  verses  run  thus:  — 

"  Greater  pleasure  sure  than  this, 

Or  sweeter  no  man  ever  had, 
That  for  Christ's  dear  sake 

To  run  with  zeal  and  gladness  mad. 
Then  let  each  man  cry  with  me, 
Mad,  mad,  mad  we  '11  ever  be  I  ** 

Still  more  strange  is  the  following:  — 

"  1  will  give  thee,  soul  of  mine. 

One  medicine  better  far  than  all; 
•T  is  good  for  every  mortal  ill, 
And  some  the  medicine  Madness  call. 


THE  CHRIST  CHILD.  205 

**  At  least  three  ounces  take  of  hope, 
Three  of  faith,  and  six  of  love, 
Two  of  tears,  and  set  them  all 
A  fire  of  holy  love  above. 

"  Let  them  boil  three  hours  good, 

Then  strain  them  off,  and  add  enough 
Of  humbleness  and  grief  to  make 

Of  this  blest  Madness,  quantum  suff,** 

Girolamo  Benivieni  was  one  string  in  the  musical  in- 
strument of  the  age.  The  noble  lady,  Lucrezia  Torna- 
buoni,  mother  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  composed  lauds, 
among  others  those  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Year,  the  Birth  of 
Christ,  the  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds,  the  Passion,  the 
Resurrection,  the  Descent  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  the  Life  of 
Jesus  on  earth.  Her  works,  published  in  the  collection 
of  the  sacred  poems  of  the  house  of  Medici,  were  praised 
by  Luigi  Pulci  and  Crescembeni.  The  grandchildren  were 
taught  to  repeat  her  verses  in  the  domestic  circle.  There 
were  Laudi  Spirituali  of  Lorenzo  as  well.  Lent  demand- 
ing other  food  than  his  "  Poesie  Volgare  "  or  "  Canzone 
a  Ballo.'* 

The  sister,  Lorenza  Strozzi,  who  has  been  ranked  with 
Vittoria  Colonna,  Veronica  Gambara,  Leonora  Palletti, 
Gaspara  Stampa,  or  Claudia  della  Rovere,  composed  a 
hundred  Latin  canticles. 

In  Florence  it  was  a  fashion  to  gather  in  the  churches 
every  Saturday  after  vespers,  and  sing  five  or  six  lauds 
composed  by  Lorenzo,  his  mother,  Castellano  Castellani, 
Pulci,  or  Feo  Belcari,  after  which  the  image  of  the  Virgin 
was  uncovered,  and  all  knelt.  The  favorite  sanctuaries 
were  Santa  Maria  Novella,  Or  San  Michele,  Santa  Croce, 
the  Carmine,  and  principally  the  Duomo.  Candles  were 
lighted,  processions  formed,  reliquaries  carried,  and  the 
populace  joined  in  the  service. 


20€r  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  phase  of  laud-singing  would  be  incomplete  without 
Boccaccio's  hero,  Gianni  Lotteringhi,  wool-comber,  who 
directed  the  songs  at  Santa  Maria  Novella  with  infinite 
zeal  and  relish.  He  gave  to  the  brethren  shoes,  hoods, 
and  cloaks,  and  received  a  Pater  Noster  in  the  vulgar 
tongue,  the  song  of  Saint  Alexis,  the  lamentations  of 
Saint  Bernard,  the  hymns  of  the  lady  Mathilda. 

Farther  back,  the  armies  of  penitents  going  about  from 
town  to  town  and  country  to  country,  kept  alive  the 
popular  sacred  poetry,  while  Fra  Jacopone  of  Todi  touched 
the  keynote  in  his  canticles,  which  echoed  for  three  cen- 
turies, coming  from  lonely  Umbrian  convent,  and  growing 
in  richness  in  the  towns  and  villages,  when  the  people 
gathered  to  sing  after  the  day's  work  was  done. 

Fra  Jacopone  was  succeeded  by  the  Minorite  Fra  Ugo, 
Panziera  of  Prato,  the  Dominican  Fra  Domenico  Cavalco, 
the  learned  Venetian,  Leonardo  Giustiniani.  Girolamo 
Benivieni  followed  Feo  Belcari  in  another  epoch. 

Savonarola  turned  to  the  children.  He  had  the  raised 
seats  reserved  for  them  in  the  Duomo  when  he  preached. 
He  organized  a  young  republic,  with  peace  officers  (pacieri) 
to  keep  order  and  quiet  in  church,  correcters,  almoners, 
cleaners  to  polish  the  crosses,  and  inquisitors  who  entered 
houses  to  denounce  gamblers  and  blasphemers,  seize  cards 
and  dice,  reprove  women  and  girls  for  extravagance  in 
dress.  "In  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  king  of  our 
city,  '*  was  the  formula  with  which  they  knocked  at  doors 
on  their  mission. 

Opposed  to  the  carnival  license  of  dances,  triumphal 
cars,  mythological  representations,  and  Bacchanalian  or- 
gies, the  people  were  urged  to  sing  the  lauds  of  Girolamo 
Benivieni,  and  cry,  "  Viva  Gesii  Cristo ! "  The  young  men 
went  about  the  town,  insulting  inoffensive  pedestrians, 
or  throwing  mud,  rags,  and  other  missiles  into  the  shops. 

On  Palm  Sunday  Savonarola's  children  were  gathered 


THE  CHRIST  CHILD.  207 

at  San  Marco  to  the  number  of  eight  thousand,  clad  in 
white  garments,  and  each  given  a  red  cross.  They  went 
through  the  city  as  before  a  tabernacle,  singing  the  lauds, 
and  repeating,  "Viva  Cristo!  Viva  Firenze!" 

Pausing  at  the  Duomo,  they  received  on  silver  trays  the 
contents  of  the  vases  placed  on  the  altar,  full  of  rings, 
jewels,  and  trinkets,  while  chests  contained  robes  of  silk 
for  further  distribution  in  charity. 

Returning  to  the  Square  of  St.  Mark,  they  joined  the 
Dominicans  in  songs  and  dancing.  Did  Savonarola  act- 
ually share  the  refrain  ?  The  emotional  and  mystical 
elements  of  his  own  nature  kindled  in  poetical  vein  of 
kindred  raptures  to  the  sacred  rhyming  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  Through  the  instrumentality  of  these  children 
he  established  the  first  Monte  di  Piet^.  "In  the  name 
of  Jesus  Christ,  the  king  of  our  city." 

The  young  inquisitors  knocked  on  the  portal,  and 
women,  moved  to  hysterical  emotion,  yielded  up  their 
Eastern  shawls,  pearls,  wigs,  rouge-pots,  and  essences. 
They  penetrated  the  dens  of  gamblers,  and  swept  away 
the  dice  and  cards. 

The  people  seem  to  have  yielded  with  a  remarkable 
docility.  Fancy  the  hardened  gamblers  of  London  or  Paris 
suffering  the  intrusion  of  a  band  of  boys  to  bid  them  de- 
sist, and  give  up  the  implements  of  their  trade !  Fancy 
the  Casino  of  Monaco  pausing  in  the  act  of  spinning 
the  roulette-ball  at  the  command  of  one  of  Savonarola's 
emissaries ! 

The  vicious  classes  of  Florence  must  have  evinced  gentle- 
ness of  forbearance.  The  children  had  matters  all  their 
own  way.  The  lambs  went  unharmed  into  the  very  jaws 
of  iniquity.  It  is  true  they  were  of  the  same  flesh  and 
blood.  Paternal  pride  contemplated  the  shining  ranks 
with  admiration,  as  the  children  are  now  decked  to 
receive    their  first    communion,    and    to    appear  before 


208  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

the  archbishop.  The  millennium  appeared  to  be  at 
hand. 

Had  our  little  apprentice  of  the  Jeweller's  Bridge  lived 
in  that  time  he  would  have  doubtless  belonged  to  the  com- 
pany. He  would  have  been  keenly  alert  for  all  carnival 
fun  also,  such  as  the  burning  of  the  tree,  and  other  bon- 
fires inseparable  to  the  season,  or  the  placing  of  the 
delightful  old  woman  on  the  summit  of  the  ladder  under 
the  loggie  of  the  Mercato  Nuovo  in  Mid-Lent,  at  a  later 
date.  This  Q^gj-,  made  of  nuts  and  dried  figs,  was  sawn 
asunder,  and  the  fragments  given  to  the  crowd.  The 
tradition  of  the  ladder  alone  has  descended  to  our  appren- 
tice, and  he  seeks  occasion  to  pin  one  made  of  paper  to  the 
dress  of  every  woman  he  meets  on  April  Fool's  Day. 

On  Shrove  Tuesday,  1496,  the  Christ  Child  was  carried, 
with  attendant  angels,  to  the  Piazza  Signoria,  where  a 
pyramid  of  Vanities  had  been  prepared.  The  pyre  was 
sixty  feet  in  height,  with  a  circumference  of  two  hundred 
and  forty  feet.  The  children  had  collected  this  voluntary 
offering  of  sinful  luxuries,  —  harps,  lutes,  mirrors,  chess- 
boards, marble  busts  of  Cleopatra,  Faustina,  or  Lucretius, 
masks,  robes,  Italian  poetry,  the  Morgante,  Boccaccio, 
Petrarch.  The  artists  brought  their  pictures  and  sketches, 
Fra  Bartolommeo,  Botticelli,  Lorenzo  di  Credi. 

"In  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  king  of  our  city," 
sang  the  children. 

The  trumpets  of  the  attendant  Signoria  sounded  in  the 
Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  and  the  great  bell  of  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio  rang. 

The  flames  leaped  up  with  the  diabolical  glee  of  destruc- 
tion peculiar  to  the  element  fire,  the  red  tongues  seared 
the  sketches  into  scrolls,  the  beautiful  books  shrivelled, 
the  antique  busts  became  blackened  in  the  furnace  heat, 
the  tinsel  of  human  adornment, —  the  robes,  shawls,  and 
wigs  of  silk,  —  transfigured  for  a  moment,  crumbled  to 


THE  CHRIST  CHILD.  209 

cinders,  and  the  pall  of  smoke  covered  all  the  work  of 
destruction.  The  figure  of  the  sagacious  Venetian  mer- 
chant who,  perceiving  the  loss,  with  practical  good  sense, 
while  wholly  failing  to  grasr  the  spirit  of  intention,  of- 
fered twenty  thousand  crowns  for  the  pile,  has  become 
historical. 

Savonarola  has  been  severely  blamed  by  posterity  for 
the  loss  to  the  world  of  rare  objects  burned  in  the  bonfire 
presided  over  by  the  lovely  Christ  Child.  The  copy  of 
Petrarch,  illuminated  and  inlaid  with  gold,  valued  at 
fifty  crowns,  is  still  deplored.  If  a  volume  the  more  be 
missing,  written  on  finest  parchment  by  Vespaniano  da 
Bisticci,  with  binding  of  niello  work,  of  a  date  when 
book-making  was  a  luxury,  as  embroidery  of  hand-labor 
before  manufactured  lace,  it  is  ascribed  to  the  holocaust 
of  the  Bonfire  of  Vanities  by  indignant  posterity.  The 
artists  who  were  his  followers  cast  no  such  reproach  on 
Savonarola,  and  modern  historians  have  done  much  to 
refute  a  popular  error.  Savonarola  strove  to  purge  and 
purify  art  from  a  monk's  standpoint,  when  religious  art 
was  already  dead,  or  rapidly  verging  to  decline.  The 
prior  of  St.  Mark  bought  the  Medici  Library,  with  the 
debt  to  Philippe  de  Commines  cancelled. 

In  the  next  century  valuable  pictures  and  books  were 
destroyed  in  Germany  and  Holland  through  the  influence 
of  John  Calvin. 

The  Christ  Child  looked  on.  If  marble  lips  could 
speak,  the  little  statue,  fashioned  in  the  image  of  a  benign 
Redeemer,  must  have  said,  "Cease  this  mad  fanaticism 
of  destruction,  and  strive  to  cleanse  the  heart  from  dross. " 
The  children  pursued  their  way,  repeating  the  lauds  of 
Girolamo  Benivieni. 

At  a  later  date  Filippo  Strozzi  affirmed,  "Times  are 
changed.     The  goslings  lead  the  geese  to  water. " 

The  lauds  have  died  away  to  silence.    The  old  Girolamo 

14 


210  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Benivieni  returns  to  his  place  in  the  Torrigiani  Gallery. 
The  Christ  Child  is  restored  to  the  dim  chapel  in  the 
Church  of  San  Lorenzo,  where  the  statue  becomes  a  mem- 
ory, veiled  in  clouds  of  incense  and  shrouded  with  crim- 
son draperies. 

In  the  chain  of  art  how  great  the  contrast  between 
Michelangelo  and  Desiderio  da  Settignano,  "the  brave 
Desiderio,  so  amiable  and  beautiful"  I  The  statuette  of 
the  Christ  Child  still  moves  hearts  to  a  tender  admiration. 

In  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  as  the  twilight  deepens, 
the  palm-branch  is  borne  by  one  alone.  The  small  figure 
of  Savonarola  passes,  clasping  the  palm  in  his  hands,  and 
with  reverent  gaze  uplifted  above  the  Cathedral  dome  to 
the  clear  sky  beyond.  Who  can  doubt  that  the  reformer, 
who  so  often  traversed  the  narrow  Street  of  the  Water- 
melon in  life,  his  vision  purified  of  such  earthly  mists  as 
the  Bonfire  of  the  Vanities,  has,  through  fiery  trial  and 
great  affliction,  gained  the  presence  of  his  Creator  ? 

"  Lo,  a  great  multitude,  which  no  man  could  number,  of  all 
nations,  and  kindreds,  and  people,  and  tongues,  stood  before 
the  throne,  and  before  the  Lamb,  clothed  with  white  robes,  and 
palms  in  their  hands; 

'*  And  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  saying,  Salvation  to  our  God 
which  sitteth  upon  the  throne,  and  unto  the  Lamb." 

We  have  here,  in  its  fullest  significance,  and  witho»it 
creed,  the  glory  of  the  palm. 


A  CHORD  OF  MUSIC.  211 


CHAPTER  X. 


A   CHORD   OP  MUSIC. 


A  T  the  Easter  season  the  flower-vender  passes  through 
■^^-  the  Via  Cocomero,  and  holds  up  her  basket  to  the 
window.  The  fioraja  is  a  well-known  figure,  in  her  broad 
Tuscan  hat,  her  false  black  ringlets  and  gold  ear-rings 
swinging  on  either  side  of  her  brown  face.  She  is  old, 
having  enjoyed  her  prime  in  the  time  of  the  grand-ducal 
court,  but  her  smile  is  still  coaxing,  and  her  dark  eye 
crafty.  She  is  reputed  to  be  rich,  and  to  have  given  her 
daughter  a  snug  dowry  on  her  marriage.  She  still  haunts 
the  railway  station  to  welcome,  with  fawning  caresses,  the 
newly  arrived  prince  or  emperor,  travelling  incognito.  In 
her  faded  and  eccentric  costume  she  suggests  the  club 
door,  the  ball,  the  duel,  and  a  nature  as  crooked  as  the 
labyrinth  of  the  Ghetto  and  Old  Market. 

A  few  francs  are  slipped  through  the  bars  protecting  the 
casement;  and  lo!  the  embrasure  is  transformed  into  a 
bower  of  bloom  and  fragrance  in  keeping  with  the  day. 

"Behold  the  resurrection  of  the  world,''  said  Sydney 
Smith,  indicating  with  his  cane  the  first  crocus  springing 
from  the  green  sod.  Inhale  the  sweetness  of  the  Easter 
greeting  of  the  flowers !  Here  are  chrysanthemums  in 
richest  tints  of  cream  and  brown,  golden  cassia,  primroses, 
narcissus  of  a  sulphur-yellow  hue,  double  Russian  violets, 
the  waxen  tendrils  of  lily-of-the-valley,  hyacinth,  rose- 
tinted  and  lilac,  mingled  with  the  deep  saffron  of  orchids 
and  the  fire  of  tulips.     The  odors  of  jasmine  and  helio- 


212  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

trope  linger  on  the  air  after  the  old  flower-woman  has 
passed,  singing  a  ditty  in  a  cracked  voice.  Easter  brings 
souvenirs  to  her  faded  soul. 

These  sheaves  of  dewy  lilies,  all  this  wealth  of  perfume, 
should  have  been  the  offering  of  some  church  shrine  in  a 
Catholic  city,  instead  of  glorifying  the  stone  ledge  of  a 
dark  window  in  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon.  Across 
the  court  the  musician  is  playing  with  light  and  skilful 
touch  the  chorus  of  Angels  from  the  opera  of  "  Mephis- 
topheles,'*  by  the  modern  composer,  Arrigo  Boito.  Why 
does  the  strain  of  melody  suggest  the  Bargello  rather  than 
any  church  ? 

The  town  is  animated ;  the  crowd  throngs  every  thorough- 
fare. After  the  silence  of  Good  Friday  the  bells  of  all 
the  towers  peal  out  on  the  sunny  air.  The  sky  is  of  a 
tender  blue,  melting  to  an  opalescent  haze  on  the  horizon 
of  hills,  and  the  Arno,  catching  unwonted  reflections  of 
turquoise  and  gold  on  the  tawny  surface,  flows  toward  the 
sea  with  the  slender  poplars  of  the  bank  rippling  in  the 
light  breeze. 

Nature  sings  a  hymn  of  praise  to  the  Easter  day  which 
is  the  promise  of  the  spring.  Behold  the  resurrection  of 
the  Son  of  Man,  the  risen  Christ!  Behold  also  the 
resurrection  of  the  earth  in  germ,  stem,  and  leaf!  The 
flowers  in  the  window  exhale  incense  from  every  golden 
chalice  of  cup-shaped  blossom.  The  musician,  by  that 
subtle  touch  on  the  ivory  keys  of  a  pianoforte,  sends  us 
forth  in  search  of  a  chord  of  music  which  has  existed  for 
centuries,  and  is  so  much  a  part  of  Florence  and  Tuscany 
that  we  find  in  it  the  fullest  expression  of  Easter  triumph 
and  worship. 

Skirting  once  more  the  Piazza  of  the  Duomo,  flooded 
with  golden  sunshine,  and  following  the  Via  Proconsolo, 
the  narrow  street  is  soon  gained  where  is  located  the 
Bargello. 


A  CHORD  OF  MUSIC.  213 

Erected  for  the  Podest^,  or  chief  magistrate  of  Florence, 
and  renovated  in  1373,  the  building  with  its  massive  free- 
stone blocks,  quarried  at  Fiesole  and  Gonfolina  on  the 
Arno,  forms  a  shadow,  menacing  and  impenetrable,  even 
in  the  brightness  of  the  Easter-tide,  while  a  damp  and 
mouldy  breath  emanates  from  subterranean  dungeons  as  if 
to  warn  the  volatile  crowd  what  men  have  been. 

No  joyous  note  peals  from  the  tower  where  once  swayed 
La  Montanara,  —  the  bell  that  gave  the  signal  to  the  citi- 
zens to  return  home  and  lay  aside  their  weapons  after 
conflict.  The  frescos  of  the  Duke  of  Athens  and  the  con- 
spirators have  faded  from  the  walls ;  the  haggard  features 
of  prisoners  have  vanished  from  the  barred  casements ;  the 
pavements,  and  possibly  the  human  conscience  as  well, 
have  been  washed  pure  of  the  blood-stains  of  centuries. 

Here  is  a  sermon  in  stones  such  as  will  be  preached  in 
no  church  of  Florence,  Savonarola  having  long  been 
silent. 

Europe  has  but  one  Bargello.  What  marvel  that  the  his- 
torian should  discover  ever-fresh  interest  in  its  archives, 
the  poet  seek  inspiration  in  the  soul  agony  of  pas- 
sion, patriotism,  revenge,  and  wrong  of  its  captives,  and 
the  artist  linger  in  delineation  of  light  and  shadow  on 
sculptured  column  and  loggia?  What  marvel  that  the 
community  rejoiced  when  in  1841  the  Piedmontese,  the 
Englishman,  and  the  American  succeeded  in  uncovering 
the  Giotto  fresco  of  the  chapel  wall,  long  used  as  a  larder 
for  the  prisoners  ? 

Cosimo  I.  abolished  the  office  of  Podesta,  assigning  the 
castle  palace  to  the  Bargello,  or  head  of  the  police,  instead. 

Enter  the  dark  and  lofty  armory  by  means  of  the 
modern  ticket  of  admission,  and  pause  a  moment  in  the 
adjacent  chambers  as  well,  attracted  by  the  standards  of 
spears,  falchions,  and  swords,  the  mail  once  worn  by  the 
Black  Band  of  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  the  primitive  bronze 


214  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

cannon,  the  shield  of  a  Crusader,  with  a  cross  and  an  ear 
of  wheat  as  emblems  of  immortality,  the  arms  of  the 
Tuscan  order  of  the  Knights  of  Saint  Stephen. 

One  figure  still  possesses  a  vivid  personality  on  the  site 
of  the  torture-chamber,  with  human  bones  too  near  the  sur- 
face beneath  the  trap-door  in  the  pavement,  and  entrance 
walled  up  of  the  Porta  delle  Morte.  This  is  Walter  de 
Brienne,  Duke  of  Athens,  the  foreign  Podesta  of  predilec- 
tion, sent  to  quell  the  civic  broils  of  Guelph  and  Ghibel- 
line  parties  in  those  earlier  days  when  the  town  waited 
in  a  fever  of  aimless  agitation  for  the  house  of  Medici  to 
put  forth  that  iron  hand  in  a  silken  glove,  and  quell 
liberty. 

"  Come  and  rule  over  us,  and  repel  the  lord  of  Lucca, 
Castruccio  Castracane,  at  all  hazards,"  was  the  appeal  of 
Florence,  repeated  in  our  day  by  Greece,  Spain,  or 
Bulgaria. 

In  vain  Florence  petitioned  the  German  olive-tree,  the 
French  fig-tree,  or  the  vine,  the  papacy,  for  such  aid. 
Then  King  Robert  of  Naples,  the  bramble,  replied,  "  Put 
your  trust  in  my  shadow." 

The  bramble,  instead  of  coming  in  person,  or  being 
represented  by  his  son,  the  Duke  of  Calabria,  sent  a  lesser 
bramble  as  his  vicegerent,  a  thorn,  the  creature  of  his 
court,  Walter  de  Brienne,  to  rule  the  fair  city.  Born  in 
Greece,  of  French  and  Asiatic  blood,  the  stranger  was 
plausible  and  ingratiating  until  emboldened  by  power  to 
tax  the  forbearance  of  the  citizens  to  the  utmost  limit, 
with  the  fearful  culmination  of  the  siege  within  these 
walls,  nobles,  artisans,  and  populace  united,  and  the 
cowardly  thrusting  forth  of  the  boy,  son  of  the  Conser- 
vatore,  William  of  Assisi,  to  the  mob  in  the  street.  The 
duke  signed  an  abdication  and  departed. 

Thus  did  the  bramble  set  fire  to  the  kingdom  of  the 
cedar  of  Lebanon. 


A  CHORD  OF  MUSIC.  215 

The  beautiful  court  is  in  full  sunshine.  The  square 
Guelphic  battlements  of  the  building  are  visible,  rising 
toward  a  sky  as  blue  as  the  background  of  a  Luca  della 
Robbia  medallion.  A  shaft  of  golden  light  floods  the 
three  sides  of  the  cortile  nave,  where  the  arcade  of  Gothic 
ribbed  vaulting,  springing  from  foliated  brackets,  rests  on 
massive  columns.  The  shield  of  the  Duke  of  Athens, 
lions  rampant,  and  the  lilies  of  France,  still  adorns  the 
first  arch,  with  the  shield  of  Florence,  a  red  cross  on  a 
white  field,  and  an  eagle  with  a  dragon  in  its  claws  be- 
yond, and  quaint  coats-of-arms  of  other  Podestas.  Still 
more  curious  are  the  stone  tablets  of  the  ancient  divisions 
of  the  city,  — the  Dove  of  the  Holy  Spirit  for  Santo  Spirito, 
the  Cross  for  Santa  Croce,  a  Sun  for  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
a  gilded  Baptistery,  with  double  keys,  for  San  Giovanni. 

In  the  middle  of  the  court  is  the  well,  where  Floren- 
tines famous  in  history  were  beheaded,  the  hot  blood 
current  chilled  forever  on  the  mould-stained  brink. 

Yonder  is  the  stone  stairway,  divided  in  the  centre  by 
the  iron  gates,  lion-guarded,  modelled  after  that  of  the 
castle  of  the  Guidi  at  Pioppi  in  the  Casentino,  by  Agnolo 
Gaddi,  where  Dante  listened  to  the  tale  of  Pisa's  Famine 
Tower  from  the  lips  of  the  chatelaine,  daughter  of  Count 
Ugolino  delle  Gherardesca.  Will  not  the  sympathy  of 
the  poet,  thrilled  in  immortal  verse,  flow  through  language 
as  long  as  the  Arno  shall  ripple  over  the  keys  confided  to 
the  stream  ? 

Above  is  the  graceful  loggia  attributed  to  Orcagna,  with 
the  three  arches  once  divided  into  as  many  cells.  Step 
by  step  the  prisoners  used  to  descend  the  stairway,  accom- 
panied by  a  Capuchin  monk,  to  the  execution  below.  Step 
by  step  we  ascend,  noting  the  irregular  apertures  in  the 
wall  where  surely  the  wind  makes  moan  on  winter  nights 
like  the  lamentations  of  the  human  beings  once  pent  up 
within  the  narrow  space. 


216  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

At  the  summit  of  the  stairway  we  are  met  by  the 
museum  cat,  plump,  clothed  in  rich  fur  of  silvery  depths 
of  fineness,  a  true  Puss-in-Boots,  affable  in  demeanor  to 
all  the  world,  and  still  frisky  in  youthful  spirits.  The 
cat  leads  the  way  with  an  agile  bound,  past  the  three  bronze 
bells  of  antique  mould  in  the  loggia,  as  if  prepared  to  fill 
the  r61e  of  cicerone.  The  custodians,  patient  and  well- 
bred  men,  smile  at  the  fresh  caprice  of  the  universal  pet. 

Puss-in-Boots  whisks  before  us  into  the  superb  Hall  of 
the  Judges,  designed  by  Agnolo  Gaddi,  where  all  those 
colossal  groups  of  the  combats  of  Hercules,  by  Yincenzo 
Rossi,  Virtue  Triumphant,  by  Giovanni  da  Bologna, 
Michelangelo's  Bacchus  and  Adonis,  Bandinelli's  Adam 
and  Eve,  are  ranged  around  the  wall,  without  detracting 
from  the  immense  size  of  the  apartment.  Between  these 
groups  are  placed  Donatello's  round-limbed  dancers  and 
Luca  della  Robbia's  choristers. 

Other  halls  extend  beyond,  dark  and  mediaeval  in  form 
and  decoration.  Precious  glass  and  cut  crystal  of  ex- 
quisite shapes  sparkle  in  the  obscurity,  as  snowflakes 
might  gleam  in  fairy  prisms  of  design  in  a  cavern,  if  en- 
dowed with  phosphorescence;  amber  and  tortoise-shell, 
wrought  in  altar-pieces  and  temples,  have  the  tawny  lustre 
of  the  topaz;  ivory,  with  the  creamy  whiteness  of  the 
freshly  peeled  almond,  or  the  yellow  tinge  of  age,  has 
here  every  phase  of  Oriental  and  Western  carving,  from 
the  crucifix  of  the  Renaissance  to  the  Roman  diptych  of 
the  fourth  or  fifth  centuries,  suggestive  of  the  flat  surfaces 
of  Nineveh  and  Babylon;  gospel  covers  and  caskets  for 
the  altars  of  cathedrals  in  the  form  of  catacomb  sar- 
cophagi ;  enamels  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centu- 
ries, in  reliquaries  and  shrines,  incrusted  with  figures ;  and 
the  clays  of  Calabria  or  Spain  in  many-tinted  majolica. 

In  the  shadow  the  projecting  chimney  of  the  audience- 
chamber  of  the  Podest^  has  the  dogs  and  fire-irons  remain- 


A  CHORD  OF  MUSIC.  217 

ing  where  the  tyrant  Duke  of  Athens  warmed  himself; 
while  the  collection  of  Urbino  ware,  magnificent  in  color 
and  form,  brought  to  Florence  on  the  marriage  of  Vittoria 
della  Rovere  to  the  Grand-duke  Ferdinand  11. ,  gathers  all 
the  light  on  vase  and  plaque. 

In  the  shadow  the  ancient  chapel  still  illustrates  the 
feuds  of  the  Blacks  and  Whites,  once  divided  in  two  by  a 
false  ceiling,  the  upper  portion  serving  as  a  prison,  and 
the  lower  for  magazine,  larder,  or  kitchen,  until  the  ener- 
getic application  of  modern  razors  on  whitewash  disclosed 
the  ghost  of  Dante,  holding  a  lily,  the  portraits  of  Corso 
Donati  and  Brunetto  Latini,  with  heaven  and  hell  de- 
signed on  the  adjacent  partitions,  —  all  fruit  of  the  inde- 
fatigable brush  of  Giotto. 

In  the  shadow  lustrous  bronze  —  Donatello's  David,  the 
Mercury  Poising  for  Flight,  of  Giovanni  da  Bologna,  the 
rival  works  of  Ghiberti  and  Brunelleschi  for  the  Baptis- 
tery doors  —  only  yields  a  place  to  mellow  marble,  tender 
Madonnas  of  Mino  da  Fiesole,  precious  fragments  from 
tomb  and  frieze  of  Benedetto  da  Rovezzano. 

Above  stairs  tapestry,  carved  woods,  and  stained-glass, 
in  bewildering  profusion,  lead  to  the  collection  of  Della 
Robbia  ware,  —  Virgin  and  Child  in  youthful  loveliness, 
framed  in  green  foliage,  Christ  descending  into  limbo, 
carrying  the  banner,  saints  in  the  orange-tinted  robes  of 
a  later  period.  Harvest  of  dismantled  convents  and 
corner  shrines  treasured  here,  the  Delia  Robbia  work 
should  be  nearest  the  blue  heaven  visible  above  the  square 
battlements  of  the  Bargello. 

We  do  not  leave  the  first  hall.  Where  shall  we  find  a 
chord  of  music  for  the  Easter  season  unless  in  pausing 
before  the  singing  children  of  Luca  della  Robbia  ? 

These  detached  portions,  exquisitely  carved  in  marble, 
and  embodying  every  variety  of  form  and  movement  in 
graceful  combination,  were  executed  for  the  organ-loft  of 


218  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

the  Cathedral,  to  be  placed  opposite  the  dancing  boys  of 
Donatello.  The  former  gain  by  close  proximity  of  inspec 
tion,  while  the  latter  remind  the  spectator  that  they  were 
executed  by  the  master  who  moulded  the  draperies  of 
II  Zuccone,  in  masses  shapeless  to  the  uninitiated,  in  the 
studio,  with  nicest  calculation  of  the  distant  niche  of  the 
campanile  in  which  the  statue  was  to  be  placed,  and 
was  also  capable  of  tracing  the  gradations,  in  stiaceiato,  or 
low  relief,  of  the  Saint  Cecilia  and  the  young  Saint  John. 
The  Delia  Robbia  choristers  rest  against  the  wall  of  the 
great  hall.  In  the  groups,  wrought  with  such  marvellous 
delicacy,  the  faces  are  instinct  with  animation,  mirth, 
joy,  frowning  perplexity,  assumption  of  authority  in  ado- 
lescence, restraining  cherubic  infancy;  the  young  bodies 
palpitate  with  life,  the  swift  blood  dancing  in  healthy 
veins,  in  response  to  expansion  of  movement  and  song. 
Cymbals  clash ;  little  drums  resound ;  the  leaves  of  choir- 
books  rustle  in  eager  fingers.  All  lips  are  parted  to  give 
utterance  to  the  strain,  —  maidens  with  hands  entwined, 
youths  pressed  together  to  read  the  notes  on  the  outspread 
page,  roguish  urchins,  and  chubby  little  girls.  What  is 
their  song  ? 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord.    Praise  God  in  His  sanctuary :  praise  Him  in 
the  firmament  of  His  power." 

Is  not  this  the  leading  note  of  the  youths  with  the  open 
book  ? 

"  Praise  Him  for  His  mighty  acts :  praise  Him  according  to   His 
excellent  greatness." 

The  maidens  take  up  the  strain. 

"  Praise  Him  with  the  sound  of  the  trumpet :  praise  Him  with  the 
psaltery  and  harp." 

The  instruments  vibrate  in  harmony  with  the  voices. 

"  Praise  Him  with  the  timbrel  and  dance :  praise  Him  with  stringed 
instruments  and  organs." 


A  CHORD  OF  MUSIC.  219 

The  light  forms  sway  in  rhythmical  measure. 

"  Praise  Him  upon  the  loud  cymbals :  praise  Him  upon  the  high-sound 
ing  cymbals.'* 

A  little  girl  winces  and  places  her  hands  over  her  too- 
sensitive  ears. 

"Let  everything  that  hath  breath  praise  the  Lord.  Praise  ye  the 
Lord." 

Such  is  the  full  Easter  anthem  of  Luca  della  Robbia's 
singing  children  in  the  old  Bargello  of  Florence.  The 
Psalter  is  the  liturgy  of  man.  Surely  the  children  sing 
one  of  the  morning  hymns  of  the  Church,  whether  Latin, 
Greek,  or  Syrian.  Emanating  from  the  depths  of  simple 
devotion,  a  responsive  sympathy  is  awakened  in  the  ob- 
server. Luca  della  Robbia  gave  to  the  theme  expression ; 
and  to  him  we  of  a  later  age  are  indebted  for  the  loveli- 
ness of  this  chord  of  music. 

The  family  name  is  associated  with  the  fate  of  Savon- 
arola. The  Delia  Robbia  received  the  priestly  benediction 
from  the  hands  of  the  prior  of  St.  Mark,  fought  for  his 
cause,  strove  to  defend  his  life  in  the  siege  of  the  monas- 
tery, reverenced  his  memory  with  the  loyalty  of  serious 
and  God-fearing  men.  The  founder  of  the  race  lived 
before  the  day  of  Savonarola ;  but  the  labors  of  nearly  a 
century  become  associated  with  the  reformer,  both  from 
his  influence  on  the  descendants  and  as  conforming  to  the 
purity  of  the  standard  of  religious  art  which  he  strove  to 
maintain. 

Luca  della  Robbia  was  born  in  1388,  in  the  Via  San 
Egidio.  As  a  boy,  having  been  taught  arithmetic,  read- 
ing, and  writing,  he  was  next  apprenticed  to  the  gold- 
smith, Leonardo  di  Ser  Giovanni,  reputed  to  be  the  best 
master  in  Florence.  How  remarkable  the  contrast  of  his 
career  and  that  of  Michelangelo,  passing  by  swift  transi- 
tion from  the  Ghirlandajo  frescos  of  the  Church  of  Santa 


220  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 

Maria  Novella  to  the  contemplation  of  antique  statues  in 
the  garden  school  of  St.   Mark. 

The  youth  of  Luca  della  Robbia  was  scarcely  less  ad- 
mirable in  its  way.  He  began  his  studies  in  the  shop  of 
the  goldsmith,  as  did  Ghiberti,  Brunelleschi,  the  Polla- 
juoli,  and  designed  in  wax,  marble,  and  bronze.  An  ab- 
sorbing devotion  to  his  calling  made  him  chisel  by  day, 
and  often  spend  the  night  modelling,  standing  until 
morning  in  order  not  to  cease  from  drawing,  or  testing 
some  fresh  experiment.  Hunger,  cold,  and  thirst  could 
not  subdue  the  kindling  ardor  of  the  artist  within  his 
breast. 

He  furnishes  another  type  in  the  varied  elements  of  the 
city ;  for  while  the  youth,  later  led  to  ruin  by  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent  or  Filippo  Strozzi,  revelled,  sang,  and  decked 
themselves  in  rich  raiment,  with  the  vanity  of  girls,  Luca 
della  Robbia,  with  stern  self-control,  robbed  his  nights  of 
sleep  to  perfect  the  images  of  beauty  thronging  his  brain 
and  intoxicating  his  imagination. 

The  butterfly  revellers  of  the  public  pageants  have  long 
been  swept  away  to  oblivion,  while  his  creations  still 
endure  to  charm  the  eye  and  move  the  soul,  —  his  glazed 
medallions  impervious  to  damp  and  imperishable  as  brass 
and  bronze. 

Such  slender  threads  of  his  history  as  can  be  traced  in- 
dicate that  he  went  to  Rimini  at  the  age  of  fifteen  years, 
in  company  with  other  youths,  to  make  statues  and  orna- 
ments of  marble  for  Sigismund  Malatesta,  where  he  worked 
in  a  chapel  of  the  Church  of  San  Francesco,  and  on  a  sep- 
ulchre for  the  tyrant's  wife.  The  execution  was  so  cred- 
itable that  he  was  recalled  to  Florence  to  assist  in  the 
embellishment  of  the  Duomo,  where  the  singing  children 
were  designed  to  adorn  the  organ-loft,  with  a  metallic 
angel  at  either  end,  opposite  to  the  frieze  of  Donatello. 
His  labors  still  remain  in  the  bronze  doors  of  the  sacristy, 


A  CHORD  OF  MUSIC.  221 

wrought  with  Michelozzo  and  Maso  di  Bartolontini,  two 
altars,  and  the  lunettes  above  each  portal.  He  was  in- 
trusted with  the  execution  of  the  story  of  the  campanile 
designed  by  Andrea  Pisano.  Facing  the  church  Luca 
placed  the  bas-reliefs  of  the  Arts  and  Sciences,  —  Donato 
teaching  grammar,  Plato  and  Aristotle  philosophy,  a  lute- 
player  embodying  music,  Tolomeo  astronomy,  and  Euclid 
geometry. 

Then  he  abandoned  marble  and  bronze  for  terra-cotta, 
and  laid  aside  the  chisel  for  the  stecchini,  seeking  to  give 
his  creations  durability  by  means  of  a  glaze.  Had  he 
experimented  in  coloring,  in  vitrifaction,  with  the  aid  of 
litharge,  antimony,  and  other  minerals,  during  those 
nights  in  his  boyhood  when  eager  pursuit  of  knowledge 
kept  him  wakeful  ?  After  much  study  of  the  problem 
he  succeeded  in  perfecting  the  glaze  in  his  own  fashion. 

The  idea  was  not  original  with  him.  Enamelled  pottery 
was  known  to  the  Egyptians,  Assyrians,  Greeks,  and  the 
Italians  of  the  Middle  Ages,  while  the  ceramic  artists  of 
Spain  and  Majorca  learned  of  the  Arabs  the  manufacture 
of  glazed  vessels  and  tiles.  Twenty  years  earlier  Bicci  di 
Lorenzo  had  modelled  and  glazed  the  terra-cotta  group  of 
the  Coronation  of  the  Virgin  for  the  Hospital  of  San 
Egidio  at  Florence.  Luca  della  Robbia  none  the  less 
made  a  new  phase  in  art,  which  proves  Lord  Bacon's 
assertion,  "It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  things  which 
have  never  yet  been  done  cannot  be  accomplished  except 
by  means  not  yet  tried." 

Modelling  in  clay  was  a  sort  of  painting  to  Michelan- 
gelo, while  stone  required  to  be  freely  and  powerfully 
handled.  To  this  graceful  modelling  we  owe  the  Della 
Robbia  groups  of  that  first  coloring,  pure  white  enamel  on 
the  blue  and  green  of  background,  the  girlish  Madonnas, 
the  dimpled  Christ  Child  reposing  amid  wreaths  of 
foliage,  the  sweet,  attendant  angels,  the  benign  saints 


222  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

leaning  out  of  niches  to  bestow  a  benediction,  the  taber- 
nacles of  convent  walls,  the  heraldic  escutcheons  of  palace 
courts.  The  imperishable  glaze  has  preserved,  crystallized 
the  ideal,  as  it  were,  for  each  of  us,  defying  storm,  heat, 
and  cold  to  destroy  the  babies  in  swaddling  clothes  of  the 
medallions  on  the  portico  of  the  Foundling  Hospital  in 
the  Piazza  Annunziata,  or  damp  and  mildew  to  deface  the 
tomb  of  Bishop  Benozzo  Federighi  in  the  Church  of  San 
Francesco  e  Paolo  at  Bellosguardo. 

The  founder  of  the  school,  welcomed  by  all  Europe,  was 
the  embodiment  of  quiet  perseverance  and  industry.  In 
his  efforts  to  solve  the  problem  of  the  enamel  he  did  not 
attain  the  height  of  grandeur  of  despair  of  Palissy,  the 
potter,  feeding  the  furnace  fires  with  the  household  furni- 
ture of  his  destitute  family,  or  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  ris- 
ing from  the  bed  of  fever  to  give  the  two  hundred  vessels 
of  his  home  to  the  flames,  in  order  that  the  metal  should 
not  cease  to  flow  destined  to  emerge  in  the  beautiful  form 
of  the  Perseus  of  the  loggia. 

We  have  the  portrait  of  Luca  della  Robbia  in  maturity, 
the  features  massive  and  grave,  the  head  enveloped  in 
heavy  folds  of  drapery.  In  the  meagre  details  of  his  life 
the  incident  is  full  of  charm  of  the  artist  once  seeking 
the  little  town  of  Gavinana  in  the  Pistoja  Mountains,  after 
illness,  and  leaving  up  there  as  record  of  his  visit  a 
Nativity  and  a  Crucifixion.  To  the  artist,  restored  by 
the  pure  air  of  the  heights  of  the  summit  of  the  Bologna 
Pass,  the  work  may  have  signified  a  votive  offering  in 
Nature's  temple  of  health,  while  to  the  mountaineers  of 
generations  the  delicate  groups  of  figures  standing  out 
against  the  blue  background  must  have  meant  a  celestial 
visitation,  and  the  name  of  Luca  della  Robbia  been  pro- 
nounced forever  blessed. 

Andrea  della  Robbia,  nephew  and  pupil,  was  instructed 
in  the  secret  of  the  school.     Andrea  had  seven  sons,  five 


A  CHORD  OF  MUSIC.  223 

of  whom  followed  the  same  calling.  The  eldest,  Girolamo, 
went  to  France,  and  became  the  head  of  the  families  of 
the  Seigneurs  de  Pateaux  and  Grand  Champs.  Paolo  and 
Marco  took  the  Dominican  habit  under  Savonarola.  They 
executed  the  medallion  portrait  of  the  reformer,  with  the 
design  of  a  city  and  towers  on  the  reverse,  and  a  hand 
holding  a  dagger  pointing  downward.  It  was  thus  the 
fruit  of  the  Delia  Robbia  school,  extending  over  the  period 
of  nearly  a  century,  was  brought,  as  the  most  touching, 
tender,  and  reverential  phase  of  religious  art,  and  placed 
at  the  feet  of  the  prior  of  St.  Mark. 

The  museum  cat,  bored  by  inaction,  has  sidled  through 
one  doorway  after  another,  while  we  linger  before  the  de- 
tached fragments  of  the  choristers  resting  against  the  wall. 
Returning  to  the  great  hall,  the  animal  suffers  a  swift,  in- 
scrutable change  from  purring  amiability  to  lean,  bristling 
suspicion,  the  .yellow  eyes  opening  wide,  the  claws  un- 
sheathing stealthily,  the  fur  undulating  on  a  trembling 
body. 

What  does  the  cat  see  in  the  old  prison,  invisible  to  our 
eyes  ?  What  does  the  cat  hear  imperceptible  to  our  ob- 
tuse ear  ?  The  feline  senses  are  more  delicately  keen  than 
those  of  man. 

In  the  centre  of  the  hall  a  trap-door  communicates  with 
a  well  below.  Four  stories  of  cells  filled  this  superb  apart- 
ment, until  cleared  away  for  the  present  uses.  At  the 
extremity  of  the  audience-chamber  of  the  Duke  of  Athens 
a  solitary  prisoner  was  once  kept  chained,  —  a  Franciscan 
monk  turned  brigand,  who  lived  to  the  age  of  eighty- 
one  years. 

Do  these  shapes  rise  before  Puss-in-Boots  at  the  mo- 
ment ?  Or  is  the  cat  the  natural  ally  of  evil  spirits,  the 
uncanny  and  witch-like  asserting  full  sway  over  plump 
kittenhood  in  the  presence  of  Luca  della  Robbia's 
angels  ? 


224  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  children  strike  their  cymbals,  sway  in  rhythm,  and 
sing  their  perpetual  song  of  rejoicing.  ''Let  everything 
that  hath  breath  praise  the  Lord !  Praise  ye  the  Lord  I '  * 
On  the  Easter  morning  the  words  of  song  have  wings,  and 
soar  forth  from  the  heavy  casements  of  the  Podest^'s 
castle  to  join  the  choir  of  hillside  and  mountain  peak. 
''  Praise  ye  the  Lord ! "  The  slopes  about  Siena  add  their 
harmonies,  and  the  last  note  resounds  from  La  Vernia, 
the  monastery  founded  by  Francis  of  Assisi,  after  the 
Count  Orlando  dei  Catani,  lord  of  Chiusi,  had  helped  the 
first  pilgrims  to  build  a  hut  of  branches,  where  the  Ascen- 
sion, the  Assumption,  the  Nativity,  and  the  Crucifixion 
of  Luca  della  Robbia  find  kinship  with  the  voice  of  the 
nightingale,  the  violets,  daffodils,  and  cyclamen  of  the 
forest  glades,  rather  than  the  bitter  cold  of  the  Chapel  of 
the  Stigmata  in  the  winter  midnight,  when  the  monks 
celebrate  Mass. 

The  bells  ringing  tumultuously,  the  light  foliage  of 
the  trees  rippling  in  the  breeze  along  the  Arno  bank, 
the  verdure  of  the  encircling  meadows,  the  very  spheres 
in  the  space  of  universe  beyond,  complete  the  chord  of 
music. 

The  world  progresses.  The  oubliettes  and  dungeons  of 
the  Bargello  are  sealed  in  disuse ;  the  image  of  the  Duke 
of  Athens  has  faded  from  the  tower;  the  vast  halls  are 
dedicated  to  a  loan  collection  containing  a  silver  plate  of 
Cellini,  a  triptych  by  Orcagna,  a  Virgin  of  Niccold  Pi- 
sano,  wood-carving  of  Grinling  Gibbons,  where  soldiers 
once  thronged  the  guard-rooms,  and  stern  judges  consigned 
their  fellow-men  to  the  darkness  of  the  torture-chamber. 

Easter  flowers  bloom  in  the  embrasure  of  the  Flor- 
ence Window.  Across  the  court  the  musician  is  play- 
ing the  chorus  of  Angels  from  the  modern  opera  of 
"  Mephistopheles. " 

Emanuel  Deutsch,  in  the  rapture  of  the  stranger's  first 


A  CHORD  OF  MUSIC.  225 

admiration,  pronounced  Florence  the  andante  in  the  vast 
second  and  third  movements  of  Rome,  and  Naples  the 
final  cantabile  in  the  symphony  of  glory,  Italy.  How 
many  souls  have  been  amply  satisfied  with  the  rich 
melodies  of  the  andante  movement  ? 


16 


226  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THREE    PICTURES. 
L  A  monk's   cell. 

RAIN  obscures  the  window,  persistent,  long-continued 
rain,  with  warm  currents  of  air,  laden  with  moist- 
ure, sweeping  up  from  the  sea. 

The  aspect  of  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon  is  dreary 
and  dull ;  the  stillness  oppressive,  even  drowsy.  At  the 
lower  end  of  the  thoroughfare  the  pile  of  building  of  the 
Duomo  forms  a  mass  of  blotting  shadow,  and  a  surface 
deeply  stained  with  mildew,  as  if  the  mire  of  centuries 
had  been  cast  at  the  marble,  and  the  sweet  influences  of 
sun  and  wind  were  needful  to  make  the  mind  of  man 
forget. 

The  Five  Lamps  of  the  Tabernacle  rust  on  their  chains, 
and  the  withered  flowers,  placed  on  the  ledge  below  by  a 
devout  hand,  drop,  one  by  one,  on  the  wet  pavement. 

Here,  as  in  other  portions  of  Florence,  may  be  noticed 
a  puzzling  custom.  Casements  are  open;  and  curtains, 
whether  of  lace  or  muslin,  hang  limp,  while  the  steaming 
moisture  penetrates  freely  to  furniture  hangings  and  the 
linen  of  beds  within  doors.  These  same  sashes  will  be 
carefully  closed  in  fine  weather,  if  dust  is  abroad.  What 
may  be  the  theory  of  housewifely  prudence  when  due  heed 
is  given  to  the  effects  of  sun  and  dust,  yet  courts  the 
dampness  of  weeks  of  rain  in  unheated  apartments  ? 

To  enter  the  door  of  the  convent  of  St.  Mark  in  such 
weather  is  to  defy  the  depressing  influences  of  a  wet 


THREE  PICTURES.  227 

season.  Picture  galleries  may  be  sombre,  and  the  frescos 
of  churches  wellnigh  indistinguishable,  but  San  Marco 
triumphs  over  the  gloom  of  weeping  skies.  The  sward  of 
the  cloister  is  fresh  and  green ;  a  pale  rose  blossoms  in  a 
sheltered  nook. 

On  the  wall  of  the  vestibule,  surrounded  by  other  pic- 
tures enveloped  in  shadow,  the  face  of  Savonarola  is  visi- 
ble in  clear  and  vivid  contours. 

Is  this  the  veritable  portrait  painted  by  the  serious  and 
devout  young  man,  Baccio  della  Porta,  later  enrolled  in 
the  ranks  of  art  as  Fra  Bartolommeo,  after  listening  to  the 
teachings  of  Savonarola,  near  the  Persian  rose-tree  of  the 
cloister  garden  ?  The  portrait  was  sent  to  the  family  of 
the  preacher  at  Ferrara,  then  brought  back  to  Florence  by 
Filippo  di  Averardo  Salviati^  who  afterward  gave  it  to 
the  Dominican  nuns  of  Prato.  The  nuns  kept  the  treas- 
ure until  the  suppression  of  their  convent  in  1810,  when 
after  many  accidents  it  was  purchased  by  Signor  Ermolao 
Rubieri. 

Whether  the  head  in  the  corridor  be  the  work  of  Fra 
Bartolommeo  or  not,  we  recognize  him  in  it.  The  place 
speaks  of  the  artist;  and  the  softly  falling  rain,  tinkling 
in  the  water-spouts  or  dripping  from  the  arches  of  the 
cloister,  is  an  harmonious  cadence  of  memory.  Fra  Bar- 
tolommeo was  the  greatest  of  the  painters  brought  under 
the  influence  of  Savonarola.  The  intercourse  between 
master  and  disciple  was  close,  and  the  influence  on  the 
gentle  mind  of  the  latter  profound.  One  cannot  define 
Michelangelo  as  fettered  to  any  single  creed,  save  a  uni- 
versal system  of  Christianity  as  comprehensive  as  the 
cycles  of  time  in  his  own  compositions. 

The  familiar  story  of  Fra  Bartolommeo' s  career  is  like 
a  ray  of  pure  light  penetrating  the  dark  streets  of  the 
quarter  across  the  Arno. 

The  little  Baccio,  at  the  age  of  nine  years,  was  taken 


228  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

by  the  household  friend,  Benedetto  da  Majano,  to  the 
studio  of  Cosimo  Rosselli.  Doubtless  Benedetto  da 
Majano  had  inspected  early  efforts  at  childish  drawing 
with  a  discerning  and  sympathetic  eye,  as  Cimabue  gazed 
on  Giotto's  portrait  of  the  sheep,  or  De'  Medici  scanned 
the  designs  of  Andrea  del  Castagno. 

Baccio  was  apprenticed  to  Cosimo  Rosselli  to  grind 
colors,  sweep  the  workshop,  and  run  on  errands.  At 
the  age  of  twelve  his  father,  a  retired  muleteer,  dwell- 
ing near  the  Porta  Romana,  died,  leaving  Baccio  the 
head  of  the  family,  with  a  stepmother,  and  several  small 
brothers.  Docile,  modest,  earnest,  the  boy  acquitted 
himself  creditably  of  all  his  duties.  He  was  born  full  of 
grace  and  virtue.  He  resembled  the  plant,  delicate  yet 
tenacious,  that  climbs  in  growth  to  a  purer  and  higher 
atmosphere.  His  comrade  and  lifelong  friend,  Mariotto 
Albertinelli,  more  closely  resembled  a  rich  and  wayward 
exotic,  consorting  with  the  rankest  company  of  weeds, 
until  overpowered  and  choked  by  the  baser  element. 
These  two  were  as  one  soul  and  one  body,  affording  the 
remarkable  contrast  frequently  noticeable  in  the  friend- 
ships of  youth  cemented  in  manhood.  Baccio,  sent  on 
commissions  to  the  nuns  of  St.  Ambrogio,  admired  their 
works  of  art.  Albertinelli  sought  the  garden  of  St. 
Mark's,  under  Bertoldo,  where  his  precocious  talents 
attracted  the  praise  of  the  Medici  family,  and  the  sensuous 
imagery  of  his  own  nature  found  a  luxurious  expansion  in 
the  study  of  classical  mythology. 

Baccio,  timid  and  retiring,  studied  the  frescos  of  the 
Church  of  the  Carmine  in  preference.  Savonarola's 
voice  began  to  be  heard,  denouncing  the  sins  of  Florence, 
of  Italy,  of  humanity ;  and  the  sacred  fire  of  fervent  piety 
was  kindled  in  the  soul  of  Baccio  della  Porta.  He  was 
among  the  throng  of  listeners  attracted  by  the  eloquence 
of  the  monk.     The  power  of  religious  enthusiasm  bent 


THREE   PICTURES.  229 

and  swayed  him  like  a  reed.  His  sensitive  conscience 
became  troubled  by  the  slightest  blemish  of  doubt  on  his 
work  and  life,  measured  by  a  new  standard.  Brought  in 
close  acquaintance  with  Savonarola,  he  painted  that  first 
portrait,  his  brush  already  skilful;  and  the  method  of 
Cosimo  Rosselli  is  apparent  in  the  low  key  and  clouded 
transparency  of  oil-color,  while  the  features  reveal  the 
decision  of  character  and  growing  consciousness  of  power 
of  the  reformer.  The  significant  line,  expressive  of  the 
artist's  fanatical  devotion,  was  appended  to  the  painting, 
Hieronymi  Ferrariensis  a  Deo  missi  prophetce  effigies.  The 
motto  was  carefully  concealed  in  the  time  of  Savonarola's 
trial. 

Sculptors,  painters,  and  miniaturists  were  attached  to  the 
Dominican  order  by  Savonarola,  —  Ambrogio  della  Robbia, 
Filippo  Tapaccini,  Fra  Benedetto.  The  reformer's  stric- 
tures on  the  degradation  of  art  made  a  serious  impression 
on  Baccio  della  Porta.  Had  the  Christian  element  wholly 
expired  with  the  holiness  of  Fra  Angelico  ?  Savonarola 
strove  to  once  more  exalt  the  artists  just  as  he  attempted 
to  renew  the  government  of  the  city,  and  formed  the  chil- 
dren into  bands  of  assistants.  His  immediate  influence 
and  the  tragedy  of  his  own  fate  struck  and  unnerved  the 
men  of  genius  brought  in  closest  contact  with  his  own 
fervent  soul  and  austere  example. 

The  young  Baccio,  open  to  all  sweet  and  holy  influences, 
fused  into  the  portrait  the  reverence  and  admiration  of 
the  disciple,  giving  to  other  centuries  the  singular  profile 
perpetuated  by  the  Della  Robbia  in  terra-cotta,  and  cut 
in  the  gem  by  Giovanni  delle  Corniuole. 

Worldly  Mariotto  Albertinelli  scoffed  at  the  esteem  of 
his  friend  for  the  preacher.  Albertinelli,  already  prone 
amid  the  riotous  weeds,  yet  blossoming  with  the  richest 
promise,  could  he  but  be  rendered  industrious,  stanchly 
upheld  the  classical  school   and  the  study  of  the  nude, 


230  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

doubtless  using  effective  argument,  such  as  might  now  be 
heard  in  any  modern  studio. 

Baccio  raised  his  fellow-student  from  the  companionship 
of  nettles,  and  formed  a  partnership  of  interest;  but 
Albertinelli  ever  lapsed  away  after  a  time  to  favorite  vices 
and  follies.  What  he  was  capable  of  achieving  at  his  best 
may  be  seen  and  enjoyed  to  the  full  in  the  rich  and  beauti- 
ful Salutation  of  the  Uffizi. 

Then  ensued  the  climax  of  emotion  and  sacrifice,  when 
Baccio  hastened  to  the  pile  of  the  Vanities  in  the  Piazza 
Signoria,  guarded  by  the  Christ  Child  and  the  boys  in 
shining  raiment,  and  cast  all  his  drawings  of  the  class 
condemned  by  Savonarola,  the  precious  fruit  of  an  indus- 
trious youth,  to  the  consuming  flames.  The  Venetian 
merchant  inspires  a  kindred  regret  in  later  generations. 
If  a  hand  could  have  been  extended  and  rescued  the  de- 
signs of  the  eager  young  Baccio  from  the  cruel  fire ! 

Albertinelli,  surely  in  advance  of  his  day,  stoutly  refused 
to  give  up  his  pictures  in  a  similar  fashion,  and  continued 
to  sacrifice  to  Venus  and  the  goddesses  of  beauty. 

The  rain  makes  a  sad  monotone  to  thought,  trickling 
from  cornice  and  arch,  while  the  frescos  of  the  cloister 
reveal  gay  coloring  in  contrast  with  the  sombre  weather. 

Baccio  della  Porta,  the  timid  nature,  hurried  along  on 
the  tide  of  partisan  agitation,  was  one  of  the  besieged  here 
during  the  horrors  of  the  night,  when  the  mob  gathered 
with  oaths  and  menace  in  the  piazza  outside,  the  dead  and 
wounded  fell  on  the  altar  steps  of  the  adjacent  church, 
and  the  murmur  of  Fra  Sacromoro  became  audible  in  the 
convent  that  the  shepherd  should  sacrifice  himself  for  the 
sheep.  Savonarola  went  forth  to  meet  his  fate  by  yonder 
door. 

Grief,  anguish,  and  terror  overwhelmed  the  painter. 
We  see  it  all,  with  calm  pulses,  in  the  softly  falling  rain, 
through  the  mist  of  years.     Baccio  della  Porta,  docile  and 


THREE  PICTURES.  231 

faithful  little  apprentice  of  Master  Cosimo  Rosselli,  up- 
right little  stepson  and  brother,  tender  friend  of  the  wild 
and  wayward  Albertinelli,  vanished  from  the  world  of  the 
town,  the  daily  greeting  of  the  neighbors,  the  cheese- 
monger, the  vintner,  the  baker,  who  had  known  him  so 
long  and  given  him  the  name  of  Baccio  of  the  Gate.  The 
worthy  souls  sang  the  lauds  of  Girolamo  Benivieni  them- 
selves, and  closed  their  shops  at  the  hour  of  the  day  when 
Savonarola  preached,  grumbling  a  little  at  the  rigid  fast- 
ing which  deprived  them  of  custom.  No  doubt  the  change 
in  the  artist  inspired  them  with  awe  and  respect.  Perhaps 
they  shook  their  heads  over  the  loss  to  the  world  of  one 
who  promised  to  become  a  great  painter. 

Baccio  took  the  Dominican  order,  became  a  monk, 
retired  to  the  solitude  of  a  convent  cell,  and  was  hence- 
forth known  as  Fra  Bartolommeo.  The  conflict  had 
broken  his  spirit.  Savonarola  had  been  seized,  bound, 
imprisoned,  tortured  on  the  rack.  The  prophet  whom 
Baccio  revered  had  been  burned  at  the  stake,  and  his  ashes 
scattered  to  the  Arno  from  the  Ponte  Yecchio.  Fra  Bar- 
tolommeo withdrew  from  the  strife  of  the  world  in  mourn- 
ing, penance,  and  dejection.  Evil  had  triumphed,  and  the 
wicked  rejoiced.  His  voice  was  not  heard,  unless  in  the 
low-murmured  lamentations  of  the  Savonaroliani,  bewail- 
ing the  times,  and  chiefly  audible  through  the  medium  of 
Fra  Benedetto's  "Cedrus  Libanus." 

Mariotto  Albertinelli,  as  if  in  defiance,  joined  the  rank 
of  revellers,  and  opened  a  wine-shop  or  tavern  on  the  site 
of  Dante's  birthplace. 

The  monk  undoubtedly  pined  in  the  inaction  of  his  cell. 
He  had  cast  his  sketches  to  the  flames,  and  laid  aside  his 
brush,  as  a  supreme  sacrifice  essential  to  his  salvation. 
Did  sagacious  eyes  about  him,  the  superior  of  his  monas- 
tery, or  fellow-artist  concealed  beneath  the  cowl,  note  the 
drooping  despondency,  the  utter  prostration  of  the  delicate 


232  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

and  modest  nature,  deeming  it  a  pity  that  the  crystal  vase 
was  shattered,  and  the  precious  contents,  his  peculiar  gift, 
suffered  to  flow  wasting  amid  the  sands  of  listless  years  ? 
The  convent  rulers,  including  Savonarola,  were  keen  to 
detect  and  utilize  the  talents  of  the  brethren  to  the  glory 
of  the  order. 

Was  it  by  mere  chance  that  the  young  Raphael  Sanzio 
in  visiting  Florence  should  have  made  inquiries  for  Fra 
Bartolommeo,  and  sought  him  out  in  his  seclusion,  with 
such  interchange  as  imparting  a  knowledge  of  color,  and 
receiving  instruction  in  perspective  ? 

There  is  no  incident  equally  beautiful  in  the  art  of  the 
time.  Raphael,  the  genius  about  whom  already  shone 
the  radiance  that  won  all  hearts,  came  to  the  monk's  cell, 
like  one  of  his  own  archangels,  on  outspread  wings,  smit- 
ing the  darkness  of  moping  inaction  by  his  very  presence, 
bidding  the  soul  of  the  follower  of  Savonarola  to  arise  out 
of  the  dust,  for  life  was  estimable,  and  the  earth  still  full 
of  countless  blessings.  Raphael  was  the  swift  messenger  of 
art. 

Savonarola  may  have  visited  the  cell  of  his  devoted  fol- 
lower in  dreams,  and  the  confessor  of  the  convent  still 
further  guided  awakening  inclination. 

In  fear  and  joy,  Fra  Bartolommeo  resumed  his  brush, 
refreshed  by  the  intercourse  with  Raphael.  Henceforth 
he  must  pray  for  wings  and  not  crutches.  His  studio 
was  opened  within  these  precincts  of  St.  Mark.  He 
adopted  the  use  of  the  jointed  lay  figure  instead  of 
draping  clay  models  after  the  manner  of  Lorenzo  di 
Credi.  Color  was  to  the  painter  what  marble  was  to 
Michelangelo. 

Fra  Bartolommeo,  with  judgment  matured  and  vision 
purified  by  long  retirement,  it  would  seem,  studied  the 
works  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  Raphael.  He  visited 
Venice,  whither  Baccio  da  Montelupo,  the  sculptor,  had 


THREE  PICTURES.  233 

fled  after  the  death  of  Savonarola,  and  drew  fresh  inspira- 
tion from  the  splendors  of  the  Venetian  school. 

Mariotto  Albertinelli  struggled  to  free  himself  from  the 
weeds  once  more,  coarsened  and  hardened  by  years  of 
dissipation,  and  was  admitted  to  partnership  within  these 
walls,  as  Benozzo  Gozzoli  was  permitted  to  assist  Fra 
Angelico. 

The  two  friends  executed  magnificent  work  together, 
signed  by  their  names  interlaced;  then  ensued  a  final 
separation,  — Albertinelli  sinking  out  of  sight,  while  Fra 
Bartolommeo  climbed  from  excellence  to  perfection, 
gaining  strength  in  light  and  shadow,  method,  contours, 
and  beauty  of  composition.  Like  Michelangelo  with  the 
chisel,  the  monk  was  only  contented  when  he  held  a  brush 
in  his  hand. 

What  great  works  shed  a  glory  over  these  convent  walls ! 
How  the  figures  of  Fra  Bartolommeo  stand  forth,  majestic, 
powerful,  fully  rounded  into  life  because  painted  on  the 
verge  of  the  decline  of  religious  painting!  The  Last 
Judgment  on  the  wall  of  Santa  Maria  Nuova,  the  Vision 
of  Saint  Bernard,  the  Marriage  of  Saint  Catherine  of 
Siena,  Saint  Mark  in  a  niche,  the  Salvator  Mundi,  the 
Conception,  with  Saint  Anna  behind  the  Virgin,  watching 
Christ  and  Saint  John  in  the  foreground,  —  these  may  have 
risen  from  the  bonfire  of  the  Vanities  exalted,  purged  of 
any  dross  of  the  artist's  youth.  The  head  of  Savonarola 
as  Peter  Martyr,  with  the  wound  in  the  skull,  was  painted 
in  later  life. 

The  monk  went  to  Eome,  and  contracted  malarial  fever, 
which  recurred  each  season  until  his  death.  He  was  sent 
to  a  convent  of  the  Pi  an  di  Mugnone,  as  a  country  hospital, 
where  he  decorated  the  walls  for  pleasure  and  recreation. 
The  Fra  Paolino  and  the  Suor  Plautilla  Nelli  inherited 
his  designs  and  artist's  materials.  Why  did  the  Floren- 
tine school  produce  no  great  women  painters  ? 


234  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  portrait  of  Savonarola  hangs  on  the  wall  of  the  dark 
corridor. 

We  leave  the  cloister  and  the  convent.  The  rain  falls 
steadily  in  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon. 

Fra  Bartolommeo  belongs  not  to  the  Dominican  monas- 
tery of  San  Marco,  but  to  the  world.  We  find  him  at 
Lucca,  in  the  Louvre,  in  the  Hermitage  of  St.  Petersburg 
as  well  as  in  the  Uffizi,  and  amid  the  gilding  and  marble 
of  the  Pitti  Palace. 


n.     THE  AUTUMN  LEAP. 

The  autumn  is  fruitful;  and  the  old  contadino  who 
uncovered  his  white  head  and  crossed  himself  with  a  silent 
prayer  in  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  on  the  spring 
noonday  when  the  fireworks  exploded  on  the  car  of  Ceres 
in  the  piazza^  must  be  rejoicing  over  the  fulfilment  of  the 
promise  in  a  rich  vintage. 

The  little  wicket  of  the  palace  farther  down  the  street 
will  acquire  a  fresh  significance  to  the  humble  citizen,  in 
the  doling  out  of  flasks  of  oil  and  wine.  The  dearest  am- 
bition of  the  Florentine  since  the  day  when  Buonaccorso 
Pitti  counted  his  mulberry-trees  complacently  has  been 
to  own  a  bit  of  land  in  the  surrounding  country,  a  farm,  a 
villa,  where  he  may  watch  his  grapes  and  figs  ripen. 

"  You  were  born  already  dressed,  and  with  a  villa  for 
the  summer  season, "  says  the  envious  friend,  in  one  of  the 
small  chronicles  of  a  local  journal. 

The  shop  of  the  vegetable-dealer  opposite  blooms  with 
vivid  red  peppers,  tomatoes,  and  yellow  pumpkins.  A 
basket  of  figs  rests  against  the  wall,  just  brought  by  a 
sun-bronzed  kinsman  in  a  little  cart,  full  of  straw,  and 
drawn  by  a  dusty,  shaggy  Maremma  pony.  The  charcoal- 
merchant  stands  on  the  curb-stone,  nibbling  a  bunch  of 


THREE  PICTURES.  285 

black  grapes,  with  as  contented  an  expression  as  the 
little  faun  of  Michelangelo's  Bacchus. 

The  vender  of  chestnut  cake  has  paused  beneath  the 
Shrine  of  the  Five  Lamps,  and  places  his  pan  on  the  three- 
legged  stool  to  waylay  customers  of  the  delicacy  redolent 
of  oil. 

The  window-ledge  is  heaped  with  a  friendly  offering 
from  the  terrace  slopes  dear  to  Marsilio  Ficino,  in  his 
day,  —  fragrant  leaves,  russet-red,  brown  flecked  with 
gold-dust,  and  veined  with  crimson,  marigolds,  gladioli, 
poinsettia,   and  sun-flowers. 

This  scent  of  dried  leaves,  musky,  aromatic,  and  deli- 
cate, is  the  pervading  odor  of  the  day  permeating  the 
luxuriant  abundance  of  a  harvest  season  when  summer 
has  lingered  long  into  autumn. 

The  festa  is  that  of  All  Saints,  and  to-morrow  will  be 
the  ensuing  festival  of  the  dead.  All  Souls.  The  two  are 
usually  combined  in  the  visiting  of  graves.  The  crowds 
throng  the  height  of  San  Miniato,  still  clothed  with  the 
scarlet  Yirginia  creeper,  to  place  their  bouquets  and  gar- 
lands in  and  around  the  church.  The  little  tapers  flicker 
like  golden  stars  on  the  pavement,  amid  the  wreaths, 
and  the  country  girls  of  another  generation  smile  and 
chatter  to  their  swains,  out  on  a  holiday  with  their  parents 
and  kindred,  all  without  disturbing  the  repose  of  the 
young  Cardinal  of  Portugal,  lying  in  marble  state  near 

by. 

The  Protestant  cemetery  on  the  avenue  wears  the  most 
lovely  aspect  of  tranquillity,  with  the  same  scarlet  vines 
entwining  its  closely  thronging  graves ;  'and  a  handful  of 
chrysanthemums  have  been  placed  on  the  tomb  of  Eliza- 
beth Barrett  Browning.  The  town  has  not  garlands  of 
asphodel  enough  for  the  noble  dead  gathered  here  in  a 
last  sleep. 

Leaves!    Dead  leaves  perfume  the  warm  air,  and  the 


236  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

haze  of  heat  broods  over  the  Arno  valley.  Summer  lies 
on  the  slopes  of  Monte  Morello,  the  chestnut  woods  of 
Vallombrosa,  and  the  distant  range  of  Carrara  peaks. 
Winter  has  forgotten  the  land. 

To  quit  the  window  and  roam  abroad  is  to  find  the 
shops  closed  around  the  Duomo,  and  along  the  Via  Cer- 
retani.  At  the  end  of  the  latter  thoroughfare  the  Church 
and  Square  of  Santa  Maria  Novella  are  bathed  in  sun- 
shine. The  church  becomes  entwined  with  the  existence 
even  of  foreigners  dwelling  in  the  vicinity;  the  square, 
whether  deep  in  winter  mud  or  choked  with  summer  dust, 
is  mean,  ignoble,  modern,  the  houses  chiefly  railway 
restaurants  and  hotels,  alone  redeemed  by  the  hospital 
loggia^  the  obelisk,   and  the  sacred  edifice. 

On  the  left  is  the  Via  de'  Fossi,  with  the  shop- windows 
full  of  mosaic,  alabaster,  and  marble,  haunted  by  the 
travellers  of  neighboring  hotels,  with  the  alert  pick- 
pocket in  attendance  on  the  stranger. 

Pause  at  a  corner,  and  the  narrow,  irregular  streets  of 
the  old  Florence  branch  right  and  left,  full  of  a  shadowy 
suggestiveness  which  the  Piazza  Santa  Maria  Novella  does 
not  possess.  Crooked  byways  abound,  built  to  avoid  the 
rude  sweep  of  the  wind,  or  following  some  line  of  Roman 
amphitheatre,  with  palace  doors  revealing  glimpses  of 
enclosed  gardens,  heavy  casements  projecting  over  the 
pavement,  and  an  occasional  little  piazza^  with  a  stone 
cross  in  the  centre,  marking  a  historical  site.  A  boy  and 
a  girl  stand  with  the  red  leaves  of  a  vine-clad  trellis 
above  their  heads,  gazing  down  on  the  street.  They  laugh 
at  the  obstinacy  of  a  gray  donkey,  laden  with  wine-casks,  — 
youth,  merry,  careless,  and  indolent,  blossoming  within 
sombre  walls.  The  Via  de'  Fossi,  noisy  and  common- 
place, leads  to  the  Borgognissanti,  where  the  throng  surges 
toward  the  church  on  this  day  of  All  Souls. 

An  old  man,  seated  at  a  table  of  the  caf^,  is  eating  an 


THREE  PICTURES.  23T 

ice,  served  in  a  tiny  wine-glass,   and  of  the  consistency 
and  color  of  pomatum,  with  the  zest  of  a  schoolboy. 

The  cat  of  the  British  pharmacy  sits  on  a  chair,  gazing 
out  of  the  door,  superb,  urbane,  and  of  a  silvery  grayness 
of  tint.  A  baby,  toddling  past  on  a  holiday  promenade, 
pauses  and  addresses  the  animal  with  infantile  confidence. 
A  timid  little  white  dog  peers  in  at  the  portal,  with  a 
deprecating  mien ;  and  the  cat  tolerates  such  canine  intru- 
sion with  the  dignified  affability  of  large  natures.  Pussy's 
position  in  life  is  an  assured  one,  while  that  of  the  little 
white  dog  clearly  is  not.  These  pass  by,  but  the  cat 
remains  gazing  across  the  street  at  the  house  where 
Amerigo  Vespucci  was  born. 

The  Church  of  the  Ognissanti,  belonging  to  the  order 
of  the  Minorites  of  Saint  Salvator,  is  enjoying  2ife8ta  in 
the  calendar  of  the  year. 

Facing  the  Piazza  Manin,  with  the  yellow  fagade,  the 
delicate  Luca  della  Robbia  lunette  above  the  entrance, 
and  the  fine  tower  rising  toward  a  blue  or  a  stormy  sky, 
the  edifice  is  a  temple  of  poverty,  of  the  unsightly,  mendi- 
cant type.  The  red  brick  tiles  of  the  pavement  are  humid ; 
a  mouldy  smell  dominates  the  incense ;  the  doors  appear 
sunken ;  the  marble  tablets  are  worn.  The  greasy  cloak 
of  the  blind  man  brushes  the  intruder ;  the  crippled  woman 
beseeches  alms;  a  throng  of  dealers  in  tapers,  rosaries, 
and  pictures  set  in  tinsel,  proffer  their  wares.  We  do  not 
penetrate  the  church  farther  than  midway  up  the  aisle. 

On  one  wall  is  the  fresco  of  Saint  Jerome,  by  Domenico 
Ghirlandajo,  and  opposite  the  Saint  Augustine  of  Sandro 
Botticelli.  In  the  distance  the  main  altar  is  ablaze  with 
countless  lights,  which  illuminate  gold  and  silver  tissues, 
crimson  damask,  lamps,  and  artificial  flowers.  The  sound 
of  chanting  fills  the  ear,  like  the  murmur  of  a  sea-shell, 
remote,  prolonged,   conducive  to  revery. 

Saint  Jerome,   full  of  a  thoughtful  dignity,  rests  his 


238  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

head  on  his  hand,  as  he  writes  at  his  desk.  He  is  a  calm 
and  majestic  embodiment  of  age,  with  silvery  hair  and 
beard,  and  possibly  is  in  the  act  of  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  the  "  Vulgate  "  or  the  "  Commentaries  on  the 
Prophetical  Books  of  the  Old  Testament.'* 

Saint  Augustine  holds  the  ink-horn  and  pen  in  his  left 
hand,  while  the  right,  with  the  articulation  of  the  finger- 
joints  peculiar  to  the  artist,  is  raised  to  his  breast.  The 
head,  with  closely  curling  beard  and  energetic  features,  is 
lifted  as  if  to  receive  inspiration.  Do  not  the  eyes  of  the 
scholar  reveal  the  kindling  of  imagination  over  the  City 
of  God  ("  De  Civitate  Dei"),  or  the  emotion  of  the  heart 
rising  to  be  poured  forth  in  the  "  Confessions  "  ?  The 
page  is  open  before  him,  on  which  to  inscribe,  at  least, 
vigorous  reasoning  on  original  sin. 

These  two  fine  figures,  painted  in  rivalry  by  two  great 
artists,  absorb  all  our  interest  in  the  Church  of  the 
Ognissanti.  Gradually  Saint  Augustine  asserts  the  right 
to  undivided  observation. 

Sandro  Botticelli  was  one  of  the  group  of  painters  who 
stood  near  Savonarola  in  life  and  death.  Born  in  Florence 
about  the  year  1440,  he  was  the  youngest  son  of  Mariano 
Filepepi,  and  pupil  of  Filippo  Lippi.  Patronized  by  Six- 
tus  IV.  and  Pius  IV.,  he  painted  in  the  Sistine  Chapel 
those  frescos  replete  with  delicacy  of  design  and  beauty 
of  imagination  which  were  overpowered  by  Michelangelo's 
creation.  Of  all  the  Savonarola  artists  he  resembles  the 
most  closely  the  fallen  leaf,  smitten  from  the  branch  by 
the  storm  of  martyrdom.  Michelangelo  received  in  youth 
the  vivid  and  powerful  images  of  inspiration  from  the  lips 
of  the  preacher,  portrayed  in  the  labors  of  maturity.  Fra 
Bartolommeo,  also  young,  shrank  into  a  monk's  cell, 
crushed  and  appalled  by  the  fate  of  his  leader,  and  the 
violence  of  man,  until  such  time  as  his  bruised  spirit  was 
healed  and  refreshed  to  emerge  and  expand  in  untried  fields 


THEEE  PICTURES.  239 

of  creative  excellence.  Sandro  Botticelli,  already  mature, 
dropped  his  brush  forever,  the  vital  spark  extinguished. 

He  was  apprenticed  to  a  goldsmith,  but  early  evinced 
a  preference  for  painting.  Illustrating  the  art  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  when  the  school  of  Fra  Angelico  had 
declined,  and  Filippo  Lippi  had  modified  the  religious, 
conventional  feeling,  and  extended  the  practice  of  filling 
large  wall  spaces  with  designs  in  tempera,  Botticelli  en- 
joyed the  fruits  of  his  own  labors,  and  is  reputed  to  have 
profited  by  the  failures  of  other  men,  yielding  much  to  the 
influence  of  pictorial  and  plastic  science.  In  1480  he 
painted  the  Saint  Augustine  in  fresco  for  the  Ognissanti. 

We  have  only  slight  details  of  the  man,  but  these  are 
varied  and  fascinating,  like  his  work.  Contemporaries 
designated  him  as  fanciful,  vehement,  passionate,  and 
religious.  The  chain  of  personality  has  few  links.  In 
the  Brancacci  Chapel  of  the  Church  of  the  Carmine  The 
Martyrdom  of  Saint  Peter,  by  Filippino  Lippi,  has  on  the 
right  the  portrait  of  a  man  in  profile,  with  a  prominent 
nose,  deep-set  eyes,  and  a  heaviness  of  jaw.  He  wears  a 
red  mantle,  green  hose,  and  a  purple  cap  on  flowing  locks. 
This  is  said  to  be  the  portrait  of  Sandro  Botticelli. 

His  work  remains,  —  the  curious  allegory  of  Spring ;  the 
Judith,  moving  lightly  with  triumphant  step,  followed  by 
her  handmaiden,  carrying  the  head  of  Holofernes  in  a 
sack;  the  Fortitude,  the  round  pictures,  reminding  one 
of  the  medallions  in  sculpture  of  Donatello  and  Desiderio 
da  Settignano. 

The  sad  faces  of  the  Madonna,  and  the  meditative  ex- 
pression of  the  Christ  Child,  which  form  so  marked  a 
characteristic  of  the  painter,  were  attributed  to  the  influ- 
ence of  Savonarola  and  a  love  of  roses  due  to  a  remem- 
brance of  the  cloister  garden  of  St.  Mark.  The  pictures 
were  painted  before  the  sway  of  Savonarola  began;  while 
Botticelli,  as  a  Florentine,  must  have  imbibed  a  love  of  the 


240  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

rose  with  his  first  breath.  The  flower  still  blooms  in 
long  sprays  of  creamy,  rich  blossoms  on  the  chrome- tinted 
walls  of  convent  gardens,  borders  the  Etruscan  heights  of 
Fiesole  in  wild  luxuriance,  or  unfolds  deep,  velvety  petals 
on  terraces.  The  association,  however  erroneous,  lends  a 
new  charm  to  his  works.  May  not  the  pensive  and  mus- 
ing Madonnas  rather  foreshadow  his  own  fate,  and  the 
development  of  the  phase  of  character  of  abandoning 
everything  when  Savonarola  was  burned  at  the  stake  ? 

Botticelli  gave  his  sketches  to  the  pyre  of  the  Vanities, 
and  dropped  his  brush  forever,  after  the  execution  of  the 
reformer.  The  concluding  item  of  his  career  is  brief. 
He  would  have  starved  in  old  age,  but  for  the  support  of 
the  Medici. 

In  the  Church  of  the  Ognissanti  the  incense  rises  in 
clouds  about  the  altars,  the  tapers  twinkle,  and  the  dra- 
peries glisten  in  folds  of  silver,  gold,  and  crimson.  The 
chanting  of  voices  mingles  and  recedes  like  the  murmur  of 
a  sea-shell.  Saint  Augustine  confronts  Saint  Jerome  in 
the  fresco  of  the  wall. 

Outside  the  crowd  passes  along  the  Arno  bank,  or  seeks 
the  cemeteries  to  deck  the  graves  of  the  dead.  The  silvery 
mists  of  the  valley  rise  along  the  slope  of  hills.  The 
atmosphere  is  full  of  the  scents  of  aromatic  plants,  dry 
twigs,  bitter  and  balmy  herbs,  fruit.  The  day  is  languor- 
ous in  the  very  fulness  of  life,  and  yet  with  that  veil  of 
sadness,  the  autumn  mist,  the  light  in  the  eyes  of  Botti- 
celli's Madonnas  over  everything.  The  churches  are  only 
tombs,  so  many  mortuary  chapels,  hung  with  funeral 
wreaths,  at  this  season. 

"  Seek  not,  Leuconoe  (*t  is  sinful),  to  explore 
What  term  of  life  for  thee  or  me  may  be  in  store, 
Nor  tempt  Chaldean  mysteries  1  wiser  far,  whatever 
Our  future  fate  may  send,  with  cheerful  mind  to  bear, 
Whether  long  years  be  ours,  or  this  may  be  the  last.** 


THREE  PICTURES.  241 

In  the  window  the  marigolds  star  the  dusky  vines  that 
crumble  at  a  touch.  How  many  years  ago  the  hand  of 
Botticelli  sank  in  nerveless  inaction,  the  spirit  of  the 
artist  broken  by  the  execution  of  one  he  deemed  a  saint 
among  men!  How  vital  the  influence  of  Savonarola! 
How  generous  the  soul  of  Botticelli !  The  seasons  recur 
to  the  Flower  City  just  the  same. 

"Leaves!  little  leaves!  thy  children,  thy  flatterers,  thine 
enemies  !  Leaves  in  the  wind  !  For  all  these,  and  the  like  of 
them,  are  born  in  the  springtime ;  and  soon  a  wind  scatters 
them,  and  thereafter  the  wood  people th  itself  again  with  another 
generation  of  leaves." 

III.     THE  RESPECTED  CITIZEN. 

There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun. 

The  prolonged  note  of  a  bugle  resounds  in  the  Street  of 
the  Watermelon  in  the  sultry  stillness  of  early  September. 
A  soldier  pauses  to  blow  the  note,  and  a  responsive  stir, 
a  thrill  of  agitation,  is  immediately  perceptible.  Win- 
dows are  opened,  and  faces  grown  suddenly  pale  look  out ; 
people  gather  in  the  doors  and  at  the  corners ;  the  chil- 
dren ask  questions.  The  dealer  in  books  stands  on  his 
threshold  and  makes  some  remark  to  the  antiquity-mer- 
chant over  the  way.  The  countenance  of  the  charcoal- 
vender  is  as  nearly  serious  as  possible,  and  his  felt  hat  is 
placed  firmly  on  his  head,  instead  of  being  tilted  over  one 
ear,  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  although  no  public  calamity 
can  render  his  nez  retroussS  other  than  humorous  and 
inconsequent.  The  rosy  vegetable-woman  wipes  her  eyes 
furtively,  waiting  in  her  shop  with  some  garments  of  a 
nondescript  character  over  her  arm. 

The  cats,  with  one  accord,  have  withdrawn  to  shelf  and 
ledge,  where  they  wash  their  faces  with  velvet  paws,  or 
stare  stonily  at  a  scene  which  does  not  concern  them, 

16 


242  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  cat  is  seldom  in  the  foremost  rank  of  sympathetic 
curiosity  with  the  affairs  of  humanity,  as  is  the  faith- 
ful dog. 

The  peal  of  the  bugle  is  repeated;  then  the  sound  of 
heavy  wheels  becomes  audible;  and  a  large  van  ap- 
proaches. The  vehicle  is  neither  the  carroccio  of  war, 
painted  vermilion,  drawn  by  bullocks  decked  with  scarlet 
trappings,  carrying  the  standard  of  the  town,  accompanied 
by  the  great  bell,  nor  the  car  commemorative  of  the  Feast 
of  Saint  John,  when  a  man  dressed  like  the  Baptist  stopped 
before  a  certain  house  for  bread,  wine,  and  confectionery 
to  be  lowered  from  a  window,  but  a  wagon  to  receive  gifts 
for  those  stricken  with  cholera  at  Spezia  or  Naples. 
The  scene  is  one  which  the  most  phlegmatic  spectator  will 
scarcely  forget,  for  the  grim  phantom  of  pestilence,  ad- 
vancing from  India  and  Egypt,  seems  about  to  strike  the 
fair  Flower  City  as  well. 

The  bugle  peals ;  the  heavy  wheels  rumble ;  and  the  most 
heterogeneous  articles  are  showered  down  from  the  win- 
dows into  the  van,  —  shawls,  stockings,  shoes,  children's 
raiment,  and  copper  coin  to  be  collected  by  attendants  in 
tin  cups.  Household  stores  and  bedding  are  given  below. 
Here  the  porter  in  the  livery  of  a  palace  presents  iron 
beds  and  mattresses  in  the  name  of  his  master,  together 
with  piles  of  linen  from  the  hoards,  lavender-scented,  of 
the  wealthy  household.  There  a  poor  widow,  thin  and 
shabby  in  attire,  pauses  on  the  curbstone,  sobbing  with 
hysterical  emotion,  slips  the  gold  ring  from  her  finger, 
and  adds  it  to  the  store.  The  pedler  of  cheap  shoes  takes 
the  coat  from  his  own  back,  and  throws  it  after  the  rest 
The  gentlemen  in  the  vehicle  uncover  their  heads  cour- 
teously, and  bow  their  acknowledgments  of  these  manifes- 
tations of  sympathy.  Then  the  heavy  wheels,  preceded  by 
the  soldier-herald  and  the  attendant  crowd,  pass  on,  the 
Street  of  the  Watermelon  having  played  its  part  in  the 


THREE  PICTURES.  243 

quest  of  benevolence.  The  inmate  of  the  palace  has  given 
of  his  inherited  abundance ;  the  widow  has  cast  in  her  ring, 
which  must  soon  have  gone  to  the  pawnbroker  for  house- 
hold bread ;  the  pedler  will  lack  a  coat  when  winter  comes. 
The  varied  elements  of  the  population  have  tasted  of  a 
public  excitement,  theatrical  in  demonstration,  yet  there 
can  be  no  doubt  of  the  very  great  kindness  and  charity  of 
the  Italians  of  all  classes  to  poverty  and  distress  wher- 
ever existing. 

The  quest  of  benevolence  has  passed  on,  but  seems  to 
have  left  a  danger-signal  on  all  faces.  The  widow,  clasp- 
ing her  thin  hands  to  her  breast  with  a  dramatic  gesture, 
gives  utterance  to  the  dread  of  her  neighbors :  "  Who  knows 
how  soon  we  shall  need  help  ?  " 

The  incident  and  the  circumstances  bring  the  modern 
inmate  of  the  window  in  close  contact  with  the  past. 
There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun.  To  read  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  "  Decameron  "  is  to  have  the  regulations  issued 
by  the  ministry  of  Rome  to-day,  and  enforced  by  the  mu- 
nicipal authorities  of  the  different  cities,  in  precise,  sani- 
tary formula,  with  the  addition  of  soup  kitchens  possibly, 
and  the  opening  of  aqueducts  of  fresh  water.  "  Establish 
lazzaretti  outside  the  gates ;  fumigate  and  suspect  all  stran- 
gers arriving  from  other  places ;  have  a  care  of  the  absolute 
cleanliness  of  the  town ;  observe  sobriety  of  life. "  Thus 
reads  the  old  "  Decameron ; "  and  the  Plague,  most  baleful 
of  foes,  swept  down  on  the  Arno  bank,  and  slew  its  thou- 
sands with  a  breath. 

The  door  of  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts  is  open.  Let  us 
enter,  and  forget  the  quest  of  benevolence.  The  bitter 
cold  of  winter  has  not  yet  penetrated  the  interior;  and 
the  old  copyist  whose  life  has  been  spent  reproducing  the 
company  of  the  Blessed  in  detached  groups,  on  little 
panels,  of  Fra  Angelico's  Last  Judgment,  at  the  end  of 
the  large  hall,  does  not  need  to  pause  in  his  mechanical 


244  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

labors  to  warm  benumbed  fingers  at  the  brazier.  The  old 
copyist  resembles  the  artist  we  seek.  The  September 
warmth  of  mellow  tones  penetrating  the  opposite  win- 
dows seems  to  glorify  the  range  of  stately  master-pieces 
on  the  wall ;  the  gilded  trappings  of  Gentile  da  Fabriano 
sparkle ;  the  Madonna  of  Filippo  Lippi  smiles ;  the  angels 
of  Botticelli  move  in  the  rhythmical  measure  of  an  aerial 
dance ;  the  Mother  of  Sorrows,  in  tearless  grief,  holds  her 
dead  son  in  her  embrace,  by  Perugino. 

The  Nativity  of  Lorenzo  di  Credi  finds  here  a  place. 
The  work  reveals  the  low  tone  in  flesh  coloring,  the  care- 
ful management  of  draperies,  the  minuteness  of  landscape, 
peculiar  to  the  painter.  The  Virgin,  with  the  usual  an- 
gelic attendants  and  the  shepherds,  is  sweet  in  simplicity, 
while  the  Baptist  is  suggestive  of  Bernardino  Luini,  and 
the  Joseph  Peruginesque  in  treatment. 

Lorenzo  di  Credi  was  born  in  1459  in  the  house  of  his 
grandfather,  Oderigo  di  Credi,  whose  diary  of  quaint 
items  concerning  the  sale  of  oil,  dealings  with  farmers, 
and  the  price  of  household  goods  has  been  preserved  in 
the  Riccardiana  Library,  as  a  specimen  of  the  fifteenth- 
century  manners. 

The  father  was  a  goldsmith  by  trade,  and  when  he  died, 
the  mother,  Monna  Lisa,  placed  the  boy  with  Verrocchio, 
the  sculptor,  painter,  and  scientific  draughtsman,  who 
conducted  the  education  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  Peru- 
gino as  well. 

Under  Verrocchio,  Lorenzo  di  Credi  went  through  a 
course  of  training,  copying  the  sketches  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  with  so  much  patience  and  industry  as  to  render  it 
difficult  to  discern  the  original  design.  Lacking  the 
genius  and  imagination  of  Da  Vinci  and  the  Umbrian 
softness  of  Perugino,  Lorenzo  di  Credi  remained  an  easel 
painter,  owing  to  his  peculiar  laboriousness  of  treatment 
of  oil  medium.    Anxious  to  obtain  a  pure  enamel  of  color. 


THREE  PICTURES.  245 

he  ground  earths  to  powder,  distilled  his  own  oils,  and 
mixed  at  least  thirty  shades  of  various  tints  on  his  palette 
before  using.  His  servants  were  forbidden  to  raise  dust 
in  the  studio.  He  polished  surfaces  to  the  smoothness 
of  enamel,  and  scarcely  altered  them  by  means  of  a 
thin  glazing.  Yasari  preserved  the  drawings  of  Credi, 
which  were  made  from  clay  models  with  linen  wetted 
to  form  draperies,  before  Fra  Bartolommeo  adopted  the 
lay  figure. 

Studying  closely  the  method  of  Leonardo  da  Yinci, 
Credi  painted  the  round  picture  of  the  Madonna  sent  to 
the  King  of  Spain.  He  excelled  in  portraiture,  the  heads 
of  Perugino  and  Yerrocchio  being  from  his  brush,  as  well 
as  the  study  of  Girolamo  Benivieni  sometimes  ascribed 
to  Da  Yinci.  So  much  did  his  careful  work  resemble  the 
German  and  Flemish  schools  at  times  that  the  picture  of 
a  man  with  black  hair  and  a  black  headgear  has  been 
designated  as  Martin  Luther,  by  Holbein.  He  designed  a 
Saint  Bartholomew  in  a  pilaster  of  Or  San  Michele,  made 
the  altar  of  Saint  Joseph  in  the  Duomo,  and  the  angel 
Michael,  worked  for  the  Church  of  the  Servi  at  Florence, 
and  for  that  of  Saint  Augustine  at  Montepulciano.  He 
frequently  repaired  and  restored  pictures,  —  in  1501,  an 
altar  of  Fra  Angelico  at  San  Domenico ;  in  1508,  he  col- 
ored a  crucifix  of  Benedetto  da  Majano,  and  retouched  the 
equestrian  statues  of  Sir  John  Hawkswood  and  Nicholas  of 
Tolentino  in  the  Duomo. 

He  remained,  with  all  his  painstaking  zeal,  cold,  for- 
mal, and  ineffective  in  art.  Following  greater  lights,  he 
adopted  the  method  and  missed  the  substance.  He  resem- 
bled authors  whose  fastidious  self -consciousness  exacts 
perfection  of  diction  and  style  in  pages  which  lack  the 
pith  of  substantial  thought,  or  the  verse-maker,  who  pol- 
ishes his  lines  in  the  belief  that  he  is  a  poet.  Was 
Lorenzo  di  Credi  over-educated  by  Yerrocchio  ?    Left  to 


246  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 

untrained  effort,  would  he  have  excelled  ?     Here  is  one  of 
the  curious  problems  of  life. 

He  held  the  most  honorable  positions  in  his  native  city. 
He  was  ever  the  respected  citizen.  Verrocchio,  his  master 
and  friend,  made  him  the  executor  of  his  will,  with  the 
legacy  of  marbles  and  artistic  properties  at  Venice  and 
Florence,  with  an  interest  in  the  completion  of  the  Colleoni 
statue  in  the  former  city.  He  was  a  witness  to  Cronaca's 
will. 

In  public  assemblage  he  was  deputed  to  pass  judgment 
with  Perugino  on  the  plans  for  the  fa9ade  of  the  Duomo, 
the  placing  of  the  lantern,  the  site  for  Michelangelo's 
David,  or  to  appraise  the  value  of  the  work  of  Ridolfo 
Ghirlandajo  in  the  chapel  of  the  Signoria  of  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  a  statue  of  an  Apostle  by  Baccio  Bandinelli,  the 
mosaic  of  Saint  Zenobius.  He  retired  to  the  convent  of 
Santa  Maria  Novella,  and  died  at  the  age  of  seventy  years, 
leaving  many  unfinished  works. 

Such  is  the  brief  record  of  a  man  whose  life  and  associa- 
tions inspire  more  interest  than  his  art. 

Lorenzo  di  Credi  was  of  a  character  honest,  upright,  and 
deeply  imbued  with  the  piety  which  made  of  him  one  of 
the  warmest  adherents  of  Savonarola.  The  melancholy 
expression  frequently  discoverable  in  his  saints  has  been 
ascribed  to  the  same  source  as  the  mysterious  charm  of 
Botticelli's  Madonnas  and  the  clinging  roses.  How  many 
times  Lorenzo  di  Credi  must  have  traversed  the  Street  of 
the  Watermelon,  between  the  convent  of  San  Marco  and 
the  Duomo,  to  hang  upon  the  inspired  words  of  Savona- 
rola! The  heart  of  a  man  of  such  a  temperament  must 
have  been  harrowed  by  the  anguish,  the  obloquy,  and  ridi- 
cule which  befell  the  followers  of  the  preacher.  In  the 
storm  he  did  not  flee  into  exile,  maddened  by  persecution, 
but  remained  in  his  native  city.  He  had  carried  all  his 
drawings  not  savoring  of  the  purest  religious  elements  to 


THREE  PICTURES.  247 

cast  on  the  fire  of  the  Yanities;  other  sacrifices  he  may 
have  made  to  the  cause  he  had  espoused,  yet  he  represents 
the  conservative  element  in  the  band  of  remarkable  men 
not  doomed  to  madness  or  despair  by  the  cruel  fate  of 
Savonarola.  Had  the  nature  which  exacted  the  grinding 
of  the  earths  to  powder,  and  the  mingling  of  at  least  thirty 
colors  on  the  palette  before  beginning  to  paint,  anything 
to  do  with  this  prudence  and  moderation  ? 

The  great  genius  of  Fra  Bartolommeo  shrank,  crushed, 
wellnigh  annihilated,  into  the  monk's  cell;  the  hand  of 
the  mature  Botticelli  drooped  nerveless  to  the  grave; 
Lorenzo  di  Credi,  the  type  of  a  respected  citizen,  held  his 
place,  consulted  on  public  affairs  of  interest,  the  erec- 
tion of  the  David  on  a  suitable  site,  the  value  of  certain 
mosaics,  the  completion  of  the  cathedral  fagade. 

At  this  distance  of  time,  the  fury  of  passion  calmed, 
the  heat  of  partisan  dispute  over,  the  morbid  sensitiveness 
of  souls  sickened  by  violent  deeds  healed,  the  temperance, 
patience,  and  industry  of  Lorenzo  di  Credi  inspire  pro- 
found admiration.  As  an  artist  he  may  have  been  narrow, 
conventional,  harsh,  but  as  a  man  he  was  in  advance  of 
his  day. 


248  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN   A   CHURCH   NICHE. 

A  LEAF  of  paper  lies  on  the  table  within  the  disk  of 
light  from  a  shaded  lamp.  On  this  sheet  is  outlined 
the  face,  in  profile,  of  an  elderly  man,  full  of  character, 
passion,  and  a  trace  of  visionary  wildness  in  the  expres- 
sion. The  eye  is  prominent,  the  nose  curved,  brow  and 
cheek  hollowed  and  deeply  lined,  the  hair  and  beard  worn 
long,  while  the  curious  cap  on  the  head  enhances  the 
singularity  of  the  whole  physiognomy.  Was  he  a  magi- 
cian dealing  with  Black  Art,  a  philosopher,  a  poet  ? 

This  is  the  face  of  Baccio  da  Montelupo. 

Extinguish  the  lamp,  and  the  moonbeams  slant  through 
the  window,  inviting  the  inmate  abroad  to  enjoy  the 
witchery  of  the  light  on  the  town.  The  lamps  of  the 
opposite  shrine  sparkle.  The  moon  that  shines  on  Italy 
is  without  seasons.  The  midsummer  sky  may  have  the 
beryl  tinge  of  a  crystal  clearness,  gained  from  the  sweep 
of  a  recent  tramontana  wind,  or  the  night  of  midwinter 
be  rendered  resplendent  by  a  mellow  ray,  elsewhere  asso- 
ciated with  autumn  warmth. 

The  Street  of  the  Watermelon  is  white  as  with  a  celes- 
tial radiance,  and  each  of  the  five  lamps  of  the  Taber- 
nacle casts  a  separate,  sharply  defined  shadow  on  the 
wall. 

The  Piazza  of  the  Duomo  is  paved  with  silver,  and,  one 
by  one,  the  statues  of  the  new  facade  become  detached 
from  snowy  column,  portico,  and  pinnacle,  like  the  trans- 


IN  A  CHURCH  NICHE.  249 

figured  saints  of  a  vision,  while  the  campanile  melts  to 
soft,  opalescent  tints. 

The  intense  brilliancy  wearies  and  pains  the  eye  with 
the  broad  effulgence  of  unvarying  splendor,  as  the  silence 
of  the  spot  awes  the  spirit.  The  full  moon  sleeping  on 
the  surface  of  the  Mediterranean,  or  lending  her  charm  to 
the  midnight  revelry  of  music,  laughter,  and  drifting  boat 
at  Venice,  has  a  different  aspect.  Here  all  is  cold,  grave, 
and  harmonious.  Shadows,  weird  and  fantastic,  play  on 
the  Via  Calzajuoli  beyond.  The  movement  of  day  is  over, 
and  the  shops  closed. 

A  shaft  of  light,  vivid,  tremulous,  and  occasionally 
obscured  by  a  passing  cloud,  shines  on  the  Church  of  Or 
San  Michele.  The  Shrine  of  Orcagna  is  safe  in  the 
guardianship  of  all  those  figures  in  the  niches.  The  folds 
of  bronze  draperies  acquire  a  golden  lustre  in  the  moon- 
light ;  the  faces  express  an  earnestness  of  mute  watchful- 
ness ;  and  the  angelic  heads  of  Luca  della  Robbia  in  the 
medallions  above,  bathed  in  the  radiance  of  upper  air, 
appear  to  lean  forth  to  look  down  and  note  if  the  sentinels 
sleep  at  their  post. 

Saint  Luke  holds  his  open  book;  Christ  confronts 
Thomas ;  the  Baptist  shines  in  a  mist  of  dancing  beams ; 
and  Saint  George  grasps  his  shield  beneath  his  Gothic 
canopy.  In  full  light  stands  Saint  John  the  Evangelist, 
of  Baccio  da  Montelupo. 

What  manner  of  man  was  the  magician  in  the  odd  cap  ? 
Considered  in  close  proximity  with  the  sober  and  indus- 
trious Lorenzo  di  Credi,  this  eccentric  follower  of  Savona- 
rola offers  the  most  remarkable  contrast.  From  the  first, 
the  owner  of  that  thoughtful  and  projecting  brow,  the 
beaked  nose,  and  hollowed  cheek,  did  not  resemble  his 
fellows,  and  was  required  to  work  out  his  own  salvation. 

Bartolommeo  Sinibaldi  da  Montelupo  was  born  in  1445, 
and  spent  his  early  years  in  dissipation,   ignorant  and 


250  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

indifferent  to  all  matters  of  art.  How  did  the  scales  fall 
from  his  eyes  ?  When  did  the  Ideal  reveal  herseK  in  the 
sanctuary  of  her  temple  to  the  astonished  and  contrite 
Sinibaldi  ?  He  reformed  his  course,  abandoned  pleasure, 
and  set  himself,  in  good  part,  to  follow  younger  men. 
Here  was  no  serving  in  the  studio  of  a  master  in  boyhood, 
as  did  Fra  Bartolommeo  and  Andrea  del  Sarto,  no  train- 
ing with  the  goldsmith  of  Ghiberti,  or  Luca  della  Robbia. 
Montelupo  had  to  repair  all  deficiencies  of  early  idleness 
as  best  he  could,  and  make  up  in  tardy  ardor  for  youthful 
frivolity. 

His  contemporaries  accorded  him  praise  for  the  execu- 
tion of  much  good  work,  achieved  with  all  the  odds  heavily 
against  him  in  so  cultivated  a  field  as  the  Florentine 
school.  He  gave  himself  to  art  with  the  same  energy 
which  had  characterized  his  earlier  pursuit  of  pleasure, 
and  a  later  vehement  partisanship  of  Savonarola,  of  whom 
he  was  a  devoted  champion. 

The  path  of  life  was  full  of  thorns  for  Baccio  da  Monte- 
lupo. The  religious  zeal  of  such  a  nature  was  not  likely 
to  remain  hidden,  and  it  burst  forth  in  a  fashion  at  the 
moment  of  Savonarola's  martyrdom,  and  burned  with  a 
fervor  of  generous  indignation  afterward,  calculated  to 
excite  the  animosity  of  all  enemies  of  the  reformer  and 
his  cause.  Montelupo  suffered  persecution,  mockery,  and 
injury  to  such  an  extent  that  he  was  forced  to  flee  into 
exile,  as  Dante  had  fled,  leaving  a  wife  and  children  in 
poverty.  He  went  to  Venice,  where  he  sculptured  the 
figure  of  Mars  on  the  monument  of  Benedetto  Pesaro,  Ad- 
miral of  the  Republic,  who  died  at  Corfu  in  1503.  Fra 
Bartolommeo  visited  his  friend  at  Venice,  the  monk  dis- 
covering fresh  inspiration  in  the  coloring  of  the  school, 
the  sculptor  worn  in  the  struggle  with  necessity. 

The  strange  glimpse  is  given  us  of  an  event  in  his 
career  which  was  worthy  material  for  the  dramatist. 


IN  A  CHURCH  NICHE.  261 

Montelupo  sought  Bologna,  lodged  with  a  canon  of  the 
Cathedral,  and  began  to  model  the  Twelve  Apostles  in 
rilievo.  He  sorely  needed  the  money  these  designs  would 
bring,  to  send  to  his  family. 

The  canon  coveted  the  statues  to  present  to  Giovanni 
Bentivoglio,  the  lord  of  Bologna,  from  whom  he  hoped  to 
obtain  a  government  appointment  for  a  brother.  He 
offered  his  tenant  half  of  the  sum  demanded,  and  Monte- 
lupo refused,  until,  harried  with  toil  and  anxiety,  he  fell  ill 
of  a  fever.  Then  the  wicked  host  decided  to  obtain  the 
prize  without  payment,  by  mixing  a  slow  poison  in  the 
fever  draught  administered  to  the  helpless  patient. 

The  sculptor  in  his  extremity  prayed  to  Savonarola  to  aid 
him.  The  reformer  appeared  to  him,  having  a  halo  around 
his  head.  He  bade  the  sick  man  arise  and  seek  the  house 
of  a  certain  Camillo  della  Siepe,  where  he  would  recover. 

Montelupo  obeyed,  escaped  from  his  persecutor  and  his 
fever  draughts,  and  recovered.  The  sculptor  believed  in 
this  miraculous  intervention,  and  used  to  recount  the 
history  in  old  age. 

He  executed  crucifixes  in  wood  for  the  monks  of  St. 
Mark,  St.  Peter's  Maggiore,  and  the  Badia  of  Arezzo,  as 
well  as  many  ornaments  for  the  houses  of  citizens.  He 
carved  a  monument  for  the  sepulchre  of  the  Bishop  Sil- 
vestro  de'  Gigli  at  Lucca,  which  was  afterward  sold  to  a 
stone-cutter  making  repairs.  His  son,  Raffaelo,  began  to 
work  in  clay,  wax,  and  bronze  in  youth,  and  made  a  good 
reputation. 

Baccio  da  Montelupo  died  at  Lucca,  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
eight  years;  and  the  town  did  him  honor.  The  man 
rather  than  his  works  interests  us. 

A  cloud  passes  over  the  moon,  and  the  outline  of  the 
Church  of  Or  San  Michele,  the  square  form  of  the  origi- 
nal corn  market,  becomes  dim. 

In  the  rear  all  those  picturesque  houses,  arched  passages, 


252  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

and  flights  of  steps  leading  to  the  Old  Market,  worthy  of 
the  etcher's  skill,  are  black,  impenetrable,  tortuous,  in 
the  winding  labyrinths  used  for  centuries.  Desertion 
broods  over  the  former  teeming  centre  of  life.  The  small 
windows  shed  no  light  on  adjacent  flying  buttress,  tower, 
and  sculptured  escutcheon.  The  spirit  of  darkness  reigns 
in  John  of  Bologna's  devil,  which  still  adorns  the  corner 
of  the  Vecchietti  mansion.  The  silence  is  almost  palpa- 
ble. No  echo  is  audible  of  the  fine  voice  of  Burchiello, 
the  barber,  trolling  forth  a  challenge  to  other  wits  to 
engage  in  warfare,  from  the  threshold  of  his  shop,  fre- 
quented by  the  great  men  of  his  time.  Gone  are  the  stalls 
beneath  the  gabled  roofs,  with  their  tawny  awnings,  shel- 
tering salad,  cabbages,  capsicum,  pomegranate,  and  yel- 
low mushrooms  from  the  Apennines.  The  kingdom  of 
beans,  haricot,  lupin,  and  lentil  is  wofully  empty.  The 
casserole  of  the  vender  no  longer  fries  delicately,  in  bub- 
bling oil,  golden  polenta^  melon-flowers,  livers,  artichoke, 
and  bits  of  fennel.  The  spit  of  the  professional  roaster  no 
longer  revolves  with  trussed  fowl,  larks,  and  thrushes  be- 
fore the  wide  chimney  of  the  cook-shop  of  four  centuries, 
in  a  dark  interior  resplendent  with  majolica  and  polished 
copper.  The  fruit  of  the  sea  —  sole,  tunny,  sardine, 
lobster,  shrimp,  and  sepia,  with  widespread  tentacles  — 
must  be  sought  elsewhere  than  in  the  fish-market  built  by 
Cosimo  I.  All  these  have  been  swept  away  to  larger 
quarters.  In  vain  the  modern  chef  would  haunt  the  spot 
where  he  was  wont  to  select  turkieys  and  capons  as  plump 
as  the  canons  of  the  Cathedral,  to  meditate  on  fresh  artis- 
tic combinations,  —  whether  Timballe  a  la  Medici,  or  a 
pasty  of  game,  the  result  would  be  a  Barmecidal  ban- 
quet. The  Attic  salt  of  other  generations  lacks  savor ;  the 
clamor  of  voices  is  forever  hushed. 

<*  Are  men  poor  ? 

Behold  them  ragged,  sick,  lame,  halt,  and  blind  I 

Do  they  u.««e  speech  ?    Ay ;  street  terms,  market-phrases." 


IN  A  CHURCH  NICHE.  253 

Baccio  da  Montelupo,  in  his  odd  cap,  seems  to  flee  from 
the  rabble  of  his  enemies  in  the  darkness  of  the  Ghetto. 

The  moon  shines  once  more;  and  the  statues  in  the 
niches  of  the  church  watch  about  Orcagna's  Tabernacle, 
while  the  Luca  della  Robbia  angels  in  the  upper  space 
lean  forth  to  note  if  the  sentinels  sleep  at  their  post. 


254  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 


THE    STORY-TELLER. 


A  ND  Cronaca  ceased  from  story-telling.  The  person- 
-^■^  ality  of  Cronaca  possesses  originality  and  freshness. 
He  formed  a  most  characteristic  element  of  the  common- 
wealth, yet  we  only  obtain  glimpses  of  him  here  and  there, 
traits  of  warm  human  nature  flashing  into  brightness  and 
vanishing  in  the  crowd  again,  as  his  own  bits  of  archi- 
tecture and  marble  work  were  inserted,  mosaic- wise,  in 
the  labors  of  other  men. 

The  portrait  head  in  old  volumes  reveals  the  man :  the 
face  is  large  and  closely  shaven,  the  eyes  widely  opened 
and  full  of  animation,  the  hair  swept  back  carelessly,  the 
mobile  lips  about  to  speak,  the  whole  physiognomy  betray- 
ing frankness  and  confidence. 

Such  was  the  story-teller,  whose  vein  of  varied  loqua- 
city was  paralyzed,  whose  volatile  brain  became  clouded, 
darkened  by  the  awful  shock  of  Savonarola's  death.  His 
history  seems  to  be  comprised  in  this  summary:  — 

Simone  del  Pollajuolo,  called  II  Cronaca,  was  the  son 
of  Tommaso  d'Antonio  Pollajuolo,  and  born  on  the  30th  of 
October,  1457.  In  his  early  youth  he  ran  away  from 
Florence,  either  for  some  boyish  misdemeanor,  or  actuated 
by  an  ardent  desire  to  see  the  world  for  himself.  The 
world  meant  Rome  to  the  artist,  as  well  as  the  prince  and 
statesman.  Cronaca,  in  whom  a  love  of  architecture  had 
already  developed,  so  much  admired  the  buildings  of  the 
Eternal  City  that  he  took  the  measure  of  many  edifices. 


THE  STORY-TELLER.  255 

Returning  to  Florence,  he  ever  afterward  recounted  the 
marvels  beheld  at  Rome  and  elsewhere  in  his  travels,  and 
his  fellow-citizens  christened  him  "the  chronicler,"  with 
that  aptitude  for  nicknames  for  which  they  have  ever  been 
celebrated. 

Times  are  sadly  changed.  The  modern  Cronaca  is 
deemed  a  bore,  and  his  most  innocent  allusion  to  famous 
lands  a  distinct  injury  and  offence  to  his  stay-at-home 
friends.  It  was  otherwise  in  the  old  Florence.  Cronaca 
was  much  esteemed  for  the  accuracy  of  his  dates  and  de- 
scriptions; and  the  citizens  listened  with  interest  to  his 
voluble  speech,  having  no  uneasy  self-consciousness  and 
vanity  to  be  disturbed  by  his  superior  knowledge. 

He  made  the  model  of  the  cortile,  and  the  exterior  orna- 
ments with  the  Corinthian  cornice  of  the  Strozzi  Palace, 
begun  by  Benedetto  da  Majano.  Giovanbattista  Strozzi 
wrote  of  Cronaca:  — 

**  Vivo,  mille  anni  e  mille  ancoray  • 

Merce  di  vive  mid  palazzi  e  temps  ; 
Bella  Roma,  vivrh  Valma  mia  Flora,** 

Cronaca  further  designed  the  Franciscan  church  of  San 
Miniato,  and  finished  the  dome  of  cupola  of  the  sacristy 
of  Santo  Spirito.  The  appointments  held  by  him  have  a 
certain  quaintness  of  the  time.  He  was  made  master 
stone-cutter  in  1489,  then  elected  Capomaestro  of  the 
Duomo,  with  commission  to  have  sawed  the  marbles  left 
in  the  Opera  del  Duomo,  and  those  from  the  house  of 
Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  as  well  as  to  construct  new 
altars  and  steps.  As  one  of  the  workers  in  the  temple 
Cronaca  has  this  interest  :  In  1499  he  was  ordered  to 
strengthen  the  door  of  the  cathedral  opposite  the  Street 
of  the  Watermelon  with  an  additional  pilaster  and  porch, 
as  it  threatened  to  fall.  In  1500  he  repaired  the  vast 
pavement  of  the  church,  and  constructed  seats  of  wood, 


256  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

and  later  one  of  the  chapels  of  the  tribune,  with  a  cornice 
of  yellow  Siena  stone.  He  was  even  required  to  prepare 
a  map  of  the  wooded  lands  in  the  Casentino  and  the 
Romagna  owned  by  the  Cathedral  of  Santa  Maria  del 
Fiore,  designing  their  form  and  giving  their  respective 
names  to  rivers  and  mountains. 

He  was  present  at  the  act  ordering  of  Michelangelo 
twelve  apostles  for  the  Duomo.  Called  to  deliberate  on 
the  suitable  placing  of  the  statue  of  David,  he  conducted 
it  to  the  Piazza  Signoria,  where  it  stood  for  so  many  centu- 
ries. Cronaca  was  one  of  Savonarola's  devoted  disciples. 
When  the  prior  attained  the  influence  of  temporal  power 
which  made  him  virtually  the  head  of  the  city,  and  de- 
sired to  construct  a  chamber  for  the  Grand  Council  worthy 
of  ruling  a  renovated  commonwealth,  Cronaca  was  em- 
ployed. We  behold  Savonarola  consulting  Giuliano  di 
San  Gallo,  Baccio  d'Agnolo,  and  Cronaca,  on  the  impor- 
tant project.  We  behold  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  Michel- 
angelo designing  their  famous  cartoons  for  the  adornment 
of  the  walls.  We  behold  Cronaca  at  his  best  striving  to 
build  with  the  utmost  despatch  and  to  rival  in  magnifi- 
cence rooms  in  the  Roman  palaces,  the  Vatican  under 
Pius  11.  and  Innocent  VIII.,  the  castle  at  Naples,  the 
royal  residences  of  Milan,  Urbino,  Venice,  and  Padua. 

Cronaca  adopted  the  cause  of  Savonarola  with  absolute 
frenzy  of  enthusiasm,  perhaps  undermining  to  reason. 
He  made  a  will,  leaving  the  sum  of  two  hundred  and 
thirty  florins  to  his  wife.  Madonna  Tita  de  Rosselli,  and 
his  children,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  be  buried  in  the 
Church  of  San  Ambrogio.  In  the  spring  evening  Cronaca 
glances  in  at  the  Florence  Window,  and  beckons  to  us. 
Here  is  no  grim  phantom  leading  the  way  to  sepulchral 
vault,  but  a  friendly  shade,  linking  the  arm  through  that 
of  the  visitor,  and  imparting  histories  as  he  guides  the 
footsteps  to  the  Piazza  Signoria. 


THE  STORY-TELLER.  257 

The  Palazzo  Vecchio  wears  a  most  stately  aspect ;  ban- 
ners float  from  the  cornice ;  and  the  casements  of  the  Sala 
del  Cinque-Cento  are  ablaze  with  light.  A  historical  ball 
is  being  held  in  the  great  council-chamber,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  sovereigns.  Society  is  fond  of  assuming  the 
garb  of  its  ancestors,  following  the  example  of  the  Ger- 
man court. 

Florence  has  just  enjoyed  a  tournament  in  addition. 
Tournaments  have  in  no  city  a  more  fitting  setting.  That 
of  to-day  may  furnish  a  link  with  those  of  the  past. 
When  Leopold  I.,  the  beneficent  grand-duke  whose  rule 
consisted  of  twenty-five  years  of  reform  for  Tuscany, 
received  Count  Orloff  with  the  Russian  fleet  at  Leghorn, 
a  Roman  amphitheatre  was  erected  on  the  Square  of 
Santa  Croce,  having  four  entrances  adorned  with  statues, 
draperies,  and  a  floral  balustrade.  The  pageant  consisted 
of  the  defeat  of  Cyrus  by  Tomyris,  Queen  of  the  Massa- 
getae.  The  two  hostile  armies  entered  by  opposite  gates, 
the  king  on  his  barbed  steed  with  hoofs  of  gold,  supported 
by  his  two  sons  in  Persian  magnificence,  and  followed  by 
six  companies  with  spears,  slings,  and  gilded  arrows,  their 
movements  excited  by  warlike  music.  The  queen  stood 
under  a  pavilion  of  gold.  The  king,  dismounting,  waited 
in  a  tent  of  scarlet  and  silver  until  the  challenge  to  single 
combat  was  given  and  his  overthrow  ensued,  when  the 
triumphant  queen  departed  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  four 
horses,  with  her  captive  lying  at  her  feet. 

Lorenzo  the  Magnificent  remains  ever  the  hero  of  the 
tournament,  when  in  the  same  Square  of  Santa  Croce  he 
won  the  prize  of  a  silver  helmet,  surmounted  by  the  figure 
of  Mars,  by  his  prowess  as  a  knight,  mounted  on  a  horse 
with  housings  of  red  and  white  velvet  wrought  with  pearls, 
his  surcoat  with  a  shoulder-piece  embroidered  in  fresh 
and  withered  roses,  a  velvet  cap  bordered  with  pearls  and 
feathers  set  with  diamonds  and  rubies.     His  shield  had  a 

17 


258  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

diamond  set  in  the  centre,  of  the  value  of  two  thousand 
ducats,  and  he  bore  the  famous  device,  "Le  Temps 
revient,"  which  was  the  watchword  of  the  Renaissance. 
Both  rulers  have  passed  away,  but  Florence  recalls  them 
in  her  spring  festivals. 

The  light  is  shed  abroad  from  the  casements  of  the  great 
sola  of  the  old  palace.  The  glimpses  we  obtain  of  the 
interior,  the  historical  dames  in  damask,  brocade,  and 
gold  embroideries  of  Milan,  Genoa,  or  Lucca,  the  cava- 
liers in  doublets  and  silken  hose,  the  flowers,  the  fresco 
of  a  space  of  wall,  resemble  the  oblique,  illuminated  points 
we  have  of  Cronaca's  life. 

The  moments  lengthen  to  hours  imperceptibly;  the 
royal  guests  return  to  the  Pitti  Palace  by  the  covered 
passage  connecting  the  two  buildings;  the  wax  candles 
drip  in  the  chandeliers ;  the  living  forms  depart.  Silence, 
the  soft,  impalpable  hush  before  the  dawn  of  another  day, 
sinks  on  the  city,  like  the  wide  sweep  of  wings. 

The  friendly  shade  at  our  side  has  vanished,  like  a 
wraith  of  the  night.  Cronaca  has  forever  ceased  from 
atory-telling. 


FROM  THE  LABORATORY  OF  A  PRINCE.  259 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FROM  THE  LABORATORY   OP   A   PRINCB. 

THE  shop  of  the  dealer  in  hric-Mrac  is  open  on  a 
winter  day.  The  richly  blended  colors  of  the  ob- 
jects exposed  for  sale  in  the  show-window  —  the  strips  of 
crimson  and  yellow  damask,  the  strings  of  coral  and 
amber  beads,  the  Venetian  glass  and  majolica  —  afford 
a  pleasant  contrast  with  the  uniform  grayness  of  cold 
out-of-doors. 

January  holds  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon  in  an  iron 
grasp.  The  north  wind  sweeps  down  from  the  Fiesole 
heights  to  lie  in  wait  with  sudden,  treacherous  gusts  in 
the  adjacent  Square  of  the  Duomo,  ever  a  favorite  haunt 
of  Boreas;  and  the  sun  slants  in  a  transient  and  pallid 
gleam,  touching  the  surface  of  the  houses  without  pen- 
etrating the  frosty  chambers.  The  sky  is  of  a  leaden 
tint ;  and  a  few  stray  flakes  of  snow  like  stars  fall  from 
time  to  time. 

The  antiquity-merchant  stands  at  his  door,  slowly  rub- 
bing together  his  benumbed  fingers;  and  his  cat  pauses 
beside  him.  Master  and  pet  singularly  resemble  each 
other.  Swift  instinct  of  prejudice  decides  that  if  ever 
there  was  a  cat  of  a  man  he  is  the  antiquarian.  He  wears 
a  heavy,  shabby  cloak,  which  must  have  been  an  heirloom 
of  warmth  in  his  family,  the  collar  bordered  with  a  yellow- 
ish fur  like  the  cat's  tawny  coat.  His  beard  and  hair  are 
of  a  yellowish-gray  tint,  his  eye  sly  and  furtive,  his  smile 


260  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

satirical  even  when  his  manner  is  the  most  urbane. 
Altogether  he  is  feline,  sharing  secrets  with  his  cat, 
and  having  many  a  laugh  with  this  congenial  com- 
panion in  the  depths  of  the  shop  over  the  spoiling  of  the 
Philistines. 

In  the  shop'Window  this  morning  there  is  a  black  box. 
The  merchant,  after  polishing  the  surface  on  his  sleeve, 
has  just  placed  it  beside  a  brass  dish.  The  box  excites 
a  degree  of  curiosity  which  the  majolica,  the  amber,  and 
the  ivory  carvings  fail  to  arouse. 

We  quit  the  Florence  Window  and  emerge  on  the 
street.  The  rosy  vegetable -woman  holds  a  little  scaldinoy 
with  her  hands  wrapped  in  her  apron.  The  charcoal -mer- 
chant, indifferent  to  weather,  is  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  as 
usual.  The  antiquity-dealer  takes  a  small  silver  box  from 
one  of  the  capacious  pockets  of  his  coat,  and  selects  a 
copious  pinch  of  snuff,  as  we  approach.  The  cat  arches 
his  back  and  waves  a  plumy  tail  in  the  air  with  an  aspect 
of  blandness  which  plainly  says,  "Enter!  Strictest  in- 
tegrity of  dealing  will  be  found  here." 

The  black  box  in  the  case,  what  is  it  ?  The  merchant 
finishes  his  pinch  of  snuff  with  deliberation,  reaches  a 
long  arm  dexterously  among  the  swinging  copper  lamps 
and  festoons  of  lace,  and  presents  the  object  of  interest 
for  closer  inspection.  A  piece  of  black  marble,  alike  on 
all  sides,  without  hinge,  lock,  or  opening  of  any  sort,  we 
turn  it  over  helplessly  and  without  result. 

The  antiquity-merchant  enjoys  the  mystification,  his 
usual  satirical  smile  deepening  the  wrinkles  of  his  dry 
cheeks  and  temples.  He  would  serve  as  a  model  for  the 
Dutch  school  at  the  moment. 

The  cat  enjoys  the  mystification,  and  has  sprung  on  a 
carved  table  at  the  master's  elbow,  where  the  animal  poises 
himself  deftly  and  gracefully  amid  the  fragile  china,  purr- 
ing with  an  interrogative  note:  "  You  believed  yourself 


FROM  THE  LABORATORY  OF  A  PRINCE.  261 

to  be  clever  enough  to  open  the  box,  did  you  ?     You  fan- 
cied you  were  to  solve  our  secrets  at  a  glance. " 

The  bit  of  black  marble  is  not  a  box,  after  all,  but  only 
a  specimen  of  stone,   a  paper-weight,  perhaps. 

The  merchant  shakes  his  head.  It  is  a  box,  only  one 
must  know  how  to  open  the  lid.  He  reflects,  and  then 
with  skilful  manipulation  in  his  hands  one  side  slides 
back,  another  discloses  the  joint  of  a  third,  and  an  open 
receptacle  is  uncovered.  The  interior  is  smooth  and 
empty. 

"  A  poison-box,  —  period  of  the  Medici, "  the  merchant 
explains. 

"Which  Medici?" 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"Eh!     Cosimo  L,  of  course." 

The  trap  is  artfully  baited,  and  the  stranger  caught. 
Cosimo  I.  is  the  object  of  a  rich,  varied,  and  even  terrible 
interest.  He  was,  in  our  estimation,  a  man  of  porphyry. 
Surely  some  trace  of  a  whitish  powder  is  still  visible  in 
the  box !  Imagination  is  kindled.  The  sinister  relic  is 
purchased  on  the  spot.  The  merchant  and  the  cat  watch 
the  departure  of  the  purchaser  with  an  inscrutable  expres- 
sion. The  man  smooths  his  yellow  beard  with  his  hand. 
Puss  washes  his  whiskers  with  one  paw,  seated  on  the 
threshold.  Leaving  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  brav- 
ing the  gust  of  the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  and  following  the 
Via  Cerretani  to  the  Via  Rondinelli,  the  fine  thoroughfare 
of  the  Via  Tornabuoni  is  gained. 

A  winter  crispness  and  animation  pervades  the  town. 
Poverty  is  nipped  with  cold  and  hunger ;  while  the  larder 
of  the  rich  is  filled  with  turkeys,  hams,  capons,  and  wild 
boar's  head  from  the  Maremma,  served  with  kernels  of  the 
pine-cone  and  agra-dolee  sauce.  Groups  of  travellers,  red 
guidebook  in  hand,  gather  about  the  fine  shops,  stocked 
with  jewelry,  millinery,  bronzes,  and  modern  articles  de 


262  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Paris,  Sealskin,  sable,  and  silvery  fox-fur  appear  in  a 
brief  season. 

Via  Tornabuoni  of  many  memories !  The  name  is  one 
of  blessed  association  in  the  masculine  estimation,  for 
nearly  every  man  and  boy  smokes  cigar,  pipe,  or  cigarette. 
Niccol6  Tornabuoni,  Bishop  of  San  Sepolcro,  introduced 
tobacco  into  Tuscany  in  1560,  and  the  fragrant  weed  was 
long  known  as  Erba  Tornabuoni. 

In  the  curve  of  street  two  points  of  color  attract  the 
eye.  The  first  is  the  corner  of  the  Strozzi  Palace,  bloom- 
ing with  flowers  even  in  the  cold  air,  —  begonia,  heath, 
snowdrop,  primula,  ranged  beneath  the  Fanale  of  filagree 
iron- work  wrought  by  brusque  Niccold  Caparra,  who  bade 
the  Medici  wait  until  earlier  customers  were  served.  The 
second  is  the  statue  of  Justice  on  the  summit  of  the  column 
in  the  Piazza  Santa  Trinita  beyond. 

The  Justice  poises  her  scales  above  the  town.  How 
many  associations  become  linked  with  this  beautiful  statue 
during  a  residence  of  even  a  few  years  in  Florence !  The 
crowd  ebbs  and  flows  along  the  thoroughfare,  crosses  the 
Trinity  Bridge,  or  sweeps  around  the  corner  of  the  Arno, 
and  still  Justice  stands  aloft  judging  the  town.  The 
sunshine,  whether  morning  ray  or  glowing  western  light, 
loves  to  seek  the  porphyry  figure,  and  pour  a  flood  of 
radiance  on  the  red  surface  with  a  glory  all  its  own.  The 
tones  are  warm  even  in  cloudy  weather ;  rain  polishes  the 
folds  of  the  flying  mantle  and  the  lustrous  form  with  a  fresh 
splendor.  The  lines  of  parapet  of  adjacent  mediaeval  palaces 
encircle  the  column.  On  one  side  the  ancient  Borgo  degli 
Apostoli  wends  to  the  left  in  cool  shadow  of  massive  walls. 

Opposite  is  the  Church  of  the  Trinity,  an  edifice 
attributed  to  the  ninth  century,  and  modified  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  with  a  fa9ade  designed  by  Bernardo 
Buontalenti.  Churches,  like  the  human  physiognomy, 
either    attract    or    repel.      The    Trinity    is    eminentlj 


FROM  THE  LABORATORY  OF  A  PRINCE.  263 

friendly  and  interesting  in  aspect.  Above  the  main 
entrance  is  the  relief  of  the  Godhead.  The  figures  of 
saints  on  the  bronze  doors  are  always  dust-laden.  Saint 
Alexis,  in  the  garb  of  a  pilgrim,  occupies  a  niche  on  one 
side.  These  very  portals  are  suggestive  of  a  time  when 
timid  Christians,  ceasing  to  believe  that  the  millennium 
was  at  hand,  began  to  cast  church  doors  in  metal,  or  carve 
them  in  wood,  illustrative  of  subjects  typical  of  events  in 
the  Old  Testament.  Nave  and  aisles  extend  within,  with 
a  transept  and  chapels ;  above  the  main  altar  is  the  crucifix 
that  bowed  the  head  to  Saint  John  Gualberto  on  the  height 
of  San  Miniato,  in  token  of  approval  for  his  having  spared 
the  murderer  of  his  brother,  instead  of  slaying  him.  The 
miraculous  work,  canvas  on  a  wooden  frame,  was  brought 
from  San  Miniato  in  state,  borne  under  a  canopy  carried 
by  eight  senators,  and  followed  by  nobles  and  religious 
orders  to  the  present  location,  and  is  uncovered  on  Good 
Friday.  A  tumult  of  the  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines,  which 
occurred  in  1257,  invaded  this  sanctuary,  and  was  only 
quelled  by  the  priest  taking  the  pyx  and  wafer  from  the 
altar  to  confront  the  intruders. 

On  the  winter  noonday  the  aisles  are  being  draped  in 
black  for  the  funeral  of  a  foreign  woman,  whose  wish  to 
be  buried  in  a  robe  of  sackcloth,  with  the  emblem  of  the 
crown  of  thorns,  has  been  fulfilled,  while  her  wealth 
founds  religious  institutions  elsewhere. 

Generations  have  been  born,  lived  their  appointed  span, 
and  died,  while  Justice  has  gathered  the  warmth  of  the 
Italian  sunset  on  her  porphyry  robe.  Nor  should  the 
significance  of  her  first  erection  be  overlooked. 

The  pillar  from  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  or  Terme  of 
Antoninus,  was  given  to  the  Duke  Cosimo  I.  by  Pope  Paul 
IV.,  and  arriving  in  the  month  of  December,  1563,  was 
erected  in  July,  1565.  The  statue,  the  work  of  Francesco 
Ferrucci,  known  a&  Cecco  del  Tadda,  was  placed  on  the 


264  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

top  as  a  distinct  defiance  of  the  family  of  Strozzi,  in  the 
magnificent  palace  farther  down  the  street,  by  the  Medici, 
after  the  battle  of  Montemurlo.  The  triumphant  Cosimo 
ultimately  vanquished  Filippo  Strozzi  in  the  prison  of  the 
Fortezza,  where  the  brilliant  gentleman  died  mysteriously, 
as  all  human  obstacles  in  the  path  of  the  ruler  had  a 
fashion  of  doing. 

Cosimo  I.  is  one  of  the  most  splendid  figures  in  the 
history  of  the  city.  His  welcome  to  the  pilgrim  of  other 
lands  is  no  less  superb  than  that  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnifi- 
cent. He  exerted  a  powerful  influence  on  the  embellish- 
ment of  the  capital,  acting  on  the  Italian  axiom  of  the 
fifteenth  century  that  five  qualifications  were  essential  to 
the  founding  of  colonies  and  towns, —  a  healthy  air,  a  soil 
and  climate  attractive  to  influence  the  settlement  of  stran- 
gers, a  strong  defensive  position,  an  abundance  of  the 
comforts  of  life,  especially  water,  and  vicinity  to  the  sea 
or  a  river. 

After  his  reign  more  than  ever  the  praise  of  the  poet 
was  verified:  — 

"  Of  all  the  fairest  cities  of  the  earth, 

None  is  so  fair  as  Florence.     'T  is  a  gem 
Of  purest  ray ;  and  what  a  light  broke  forth 
When  it  emerged  from  darkness !     Search  within, 
Without!  all  is  enchantment.     'T  is  the  past 
Contending  with  the  present." 

If  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent  was  the  Carrara  marble  in 
humanity,  with  many  blemishes,  and  even  an  occasional 
serious  flaw,  yet  mellow  and  refined  in  tone,  capable  of 
assuming  the  form  and  polish  of  many  subtle  phases  of 
beauty,  Cosimo  was  a  man  of  porphyry,  a  coarser  grain 
of  cruelty  and  brutality  in  his  nature,  calculated  to  turn 
the  edge  of  all  tools  of  filial  love,  blunted  and  repulsed 
by  the  cold  hardness  of  a  terrible  personality. 

Cosimo  I.  was  the  son  of  Giovanni  delle  Bande  Nere  and 


FROM  THE  LABORATORY  OF  A  PRINCE.  265 

Maria  Salviati,  and  was  born  in  1519.  He  was  the  vigorous 
branch  of  a  vigorous  stock.  Caterina  Sf  orza,  the  courageous 
and  impetuous  Madonna  of  Imola,  who  is  the  type  of  the 
Italian  woman  of  her  time,  loving  passionately,  and  hat- 
ing with  equal  intensity,  intrepid,  and  full  of  quick-witted 
resource  in  moments  of  danger,  widow  of  two  husbands, 
—  Count  Girolamo  della  Rovere  and  Giacomo  Feo,  both 
murdered  by  her  subjects  of  Forli  and  Imola, — had  married 
Giovanni  de'  Medici.  The  third  husband  died  in  a  few 
months.  Caterina  gave  birth  to  Giovanni  delle  Bande 
Nere,  the  most  famous  soldier  of  his  time.  The  latter 
married  Maria  Salviati,  and  Cosimo  I.  was  the  child  of 
this  union.  Giovanni  delle  Bande  Nere,  wounded  in  the 
war  of  Lombardy,  died  on  the  banks  of  the  Adda. 

If  Maria  Salviati  has  not  been  accorded  a  conspicuous 
place  in  history,  it  was  not  for  lack  of  maternal  ambition 
or  policy.  Left  a  widow,  she  hastened  to  Rome  with 
her  son,  to  seek  the  protection  of  the  Pope  Clement  VII. 
Returning  to  Florence  and  fearing  all  enemies,  she  next 
withdrew  to  Venice,  where  her  boy  was  much  caressed 
by  the  Doge,  the  Gondi,  Tiepoli,  and  the  Strozzi,  then 
in  exile. 

The  Medici  rule  had  fallen  into  feeble  hands.  The 
first  aim  of  Cosimo  and  his  mother  must  have  been  to 
grasp  the  power,  and  restore  the  ancient  vigor  of  the  race, 
the  honor  of  the  shield  having  been  so  sadly  tarnished  by 
the  supremacy  of  the  illegitimate  branches.  The  way  was 
already  prepared.  From  the  Magnificent  the  line  of 
rulers,  —  Piero,  Giuliano,  Giovanni,  and  Lorenzo  —  cul- 
minated in  Alessandro,  who  was  assassinated  by  his 
cousin,  Lorenzino.  Duke  Alexander,  called  the  Moor 
from  his  dark  complexion,  had  even  destroyed  the  Cam- 
pana,  the  great  bell  of  Florentine  freedom,  which  weighed 
twenty-two  thousand  pounds,  and  had  much  silver  in  the 
compound. 


266  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Cosimo  I.  was  declared  his  successor,  through  the  influ- 
ence of  Cardinal  Cibo;  and  the  choice  was  confirmed  by 
the  Emperor  Charles  Y.  He  further  obtained  the  victory 
over  the  Florentines  in  the  battle  of  Montemurlo.  Emu- 
lous of  the  glory  of  his  ancestors,  Cosimo  sought  to  make 
himself  the  centre  of  art  as  well  as  power.  He  asserted 
his  claim  to  Florence  as  the  son  of  John  of  the  Black 
Band.  The  commonwealth,  weakened  by  war,  siege,  and 
famine,  and  the  oppression  of  Duke  Alessandro,  opposed 
slight  resistance.     Cosimo  was  eighteen  years  of  age. 

Benvenuto  Cellini's  comment  on  the  accession  was 
eminently  characteristic :  "  When  I  heard  this,  I  laughed 
and  said :  These  men  of  Florence  have  set  a  young  man 
on  a  splendid  horse ;  they  have  given  him  spurs,  and  put 
a  bridle  in  his  hand,  and  turned  him  into  a  beautiful  field 
full  of  flowers  and  fruits  and  many  delights,  with  strict 
orders  not  to  pass  certain  bounds.  Now,  tell  me,  when  he 
takes  a  fancy  to  ride  over  them,  who  can  restrain  him  ? 
Who  shall  give  laws  to  him  who  can  make  them  ?  " 

Cosimo  married  Eleanor e  of  Toledo,  daughter  of  Don 
Pedro,  Viceroy  of  Naples.  The  fair  Eleanore,  familiar  in 
the  stiff  brocade  and  pearls  of  Bronzino's  portraiture, 
seems  to  muse  on  her  own  melancholy  fate  and  that  of 
her  children.  Don  Pedro,  worthy  father-in-law,  found 
sepulchre  in  one  of  those  tombs  above  the  Cathedral  door, 
possibly  weary  of  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the  world  as 
embodied  in  his  own  sphere.  The  man  of  porphyry  was  a 
prince,  but  ever  a  merchant  prince. 

He  inherited  a  love  of  mercantile  pursuits,  and  held 
commercial  relations  with  England,  Spain,'  Antwerp,  and 
Augsburg.  He  manifested  interest  in  mining  operations. 
He  built  the  citadel  at  Siena,  the  harbor  and  defences  of 
Porto  Ferraio,  San  Martino  in  Mugello,  fortified  cities  and 
coast  lines,  and  opened  the  free  port  of  Leghorn.  He 
stimulated  all  labors,  —  the  fabrication  of  cloth-of-gold, 


FROM  THE  LABORATORY  OF  A  PRINCE.  267 

the  Sicilian  craft  of  working  in  coral  at  Pisa,  and  the 
manufacture  of  Venetian  mirrors  and  vases,  having  lured 
some  Murano  workmen  to  Florence.  He  attempted  to 
equal  the  perfection  of  Chinese  porcelain,  while  working 
in  pietra-dura  was  introduced  by  a  young  Frenchman  from 
Rome,  in  1568.  He  respected  literature  and  art,  honor- 
ing the  historians,  Varchi,  Adriani,  and  the  elder  Am- 
mirato,  as  well  as  Michelangelo,  Cellini,  Vasari,  and 
Giovanni  da  Bologna.  The  porphyry  was  not  Carrara 
marble.  The  intuitive  artistic  taste  of  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent,  which  led  to  personal  criticism  in  the  school 
of  the  garden  of  St.  Mark,  was  lacking  in  Cosimo,  who 
permitted  Baccio  Bandinelli  to  gain  his  ear,  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  greater  artists.  Michelangelo  was  thwarted  by 
this  influence,  while  Tribold,  who,  in  the  first  promise  of 
talent,  was  to  have  executed  the  statues  of  Heaven  and 
Earth  in  the  Medici  Chapel,  was  allowed  to  remain  on  the 
level  of  mere  stucco  ornamentation  and  arranging  state 
festivals,  such  as  the  bridal  entry  of  Eleanore  of  Toledo 
into  the  city,  or  the  baptism  of  the  heir  and  eldest  son, 
Francesco,  in  the  Baptistery,  when  the  duke  and  duchess 
went  in  procession,  and  Don  Giovanni,  the  imperial 
minister,  held  the  infant  at  the  font,  in  the  name  of 
Charles  Y. 

Cosimo  founded  the  Florence  academies  of  painting  and 
of  literature.  He  planted  the  Botanical  Garden,  reputed 
to  be  the  oldest  in  Europe,  in  the  rear  of  the  monastery  of 
St.  Mark,  in  order  to  prevent  the  nuns  of  the  neighboring 
convent  from  being  disturbed  at  their  prayers  by  the  holi- 
day games  of  ball.  He  repaired  and  completed  the  Lau- 
rentian  Library,  bought  the  collection  of  Cardinal  Carpi, 
had  manuscripts  rebound,  and  the  works  of  Tuscan  abbeys 
and  convents  added.  To  him  are  owing  the  Trinity 
Bridge,  the  Yilla  of  Petraja,  the  Boboli  Gardens,  much  of 
the  Pitti  Palace,  the  Uffizi,  and  the  state  apartments  of 


268  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  still  known  as  those  of  the  duchess. 
He  built  the  Mercato  Nuovo,  where  the  bronze  boar  by 
Tacca,  the  pupil  of  Giovanni  da  Bologna,  still  mounts 
guard  over  the  gushing  fountain,  and  the  fish-market, 
with  the  Ionic  columns  and  medallions  of  dolphins. 

He  made  stringent  game  laws,  and  had  vast  parks  en- 
closed for  the  preservation  of  deer,  goats,  stags,  hare, 
quail,  pheasant,  heathcock,  and  pigeons,  while  his  miser- 
able subjects  looked  on  at  the  sport  of  the  nobles  clad  in 
graceful  costumes  of  the  chase.  Beasts  of  the  desert  were 
actually  hunted  in  Tuscan  woods,  —  wolves,  bears,  and 
creatures  of  the  cat  tribe. 

In  the  Church  of  St.  Hubert,  "Serhumido,"  near  the 
Porta  Romana,  the  stole  of  the  patron  of  sportsmen  was 
believed  to  have  imparted  magical  properties  to  a  certain 
nail  on  which  it  hung,  and  this  nail,  preserved  in  a  hunt- 
ing-horn, could  prevent  hydrophobia  or  accidents.  One 
is  reminded  of  the  blessing  of  the  chase  for  the  French 
hunters  of  the  Gobelin  tapestries. 

Cosimo  I.  was  estimated  as  a  robust,  haughty,  and  firm 
man  of  few  words,  endowed  with  patience,  extreme  cau- 
tion, deep  dissimulation,  sagacity,  resolution,  and  rigor. 
He  died  of  paralysis  at  the  age  of  fifty-five  years,  was 
laid  in  state  in  the  grand-ducal  robes,  and  interred  in 
the  mausoleum  of  San  Lorenzo. 

Historians  find  no  more  sombre  page  in  the  Medicean 
annals  than  that  of  the  strong  man  with  the  auburn  beard, 
yet  the  dissertations  may  readily  become  morbid,  terrible, 
and  even  false. 

The  dark  blemishes  on  this  surface  prosperity  were  the 
death  of  his  sons  and  his  wife,  of  fever  contracted  during 
the  autumn  journey  along  the  Maremma,  under  suspicion 
of  poison,  and  his  failure  to  defend  Piero  Carnesecchi, 
the  Florentine  gentleman,  and  adherent  of  the  Medici, 
from  having  the  cloak  of  the  Inquisition,  the  Sambenito, 


1  T 


FROM  THE  LABORATORY  OF  A  PRINCE.  269 

painted  with  flames  and  devils,  thrown  over  him,  by  order 
of  the  Pope.  Even  the  romances  of  his  life  lack  the  poeti- 
cal elements  of  more  chivalrous  natures,  —  the  attachment 
to  the  beautiful  Eleanora  degli  Albizi,  or  the  meeting 
with  Camilla  Martelli  in  crossing  the  unfinished  gallery 
of  the  Ponte  Yecchio,  which  resulted  in  the  marriage  of 
the  dowerless  maiden,  by  advice  of  the  Pontiff. 

The  chief  interest  inspired  by  Duke  Cosimo  in  the  mind 
of  the  resident  of  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon  is  another 
phase  of  his  character.  Did  he  practise  alchemy  in  the 
depths  of  the  palace,  mysterious  rites  which  should  result 
in  the  discovery  of  the  philosopher's  stone  ?  From  the 
laboratory  of  a  prince  the  Justice  of  the  Piazza  Santa 
Trinity  emanated. 

Leaving  the  spot  and  seeking  the  Lung'  Arno,  we  turn 
to  the  left,  pass  the  Jeweller's  Bridge,  gain  the  arches  of 
the  Uffizi,  and  enter  the  door. 

Ascending  the  steep  flights  of  steps,  the  porphyry  medal- 
lions of  Francesco  del  Tadda  are  noticeable  in  the  vesti- 
bule. At  the  end  of  the  long  corridor  is  the  small  cabinet, 
with  the  vault  supported  on  columns  of  verde-antique  and 
alabaster.  In  the  centre  is  placed  the  table  representing 
the  port  of  Leghorn,  with  ships  afloat  on  a  sea  of  Persian 
lapis-lazuli,  even  to  the  galleys  of  the  order  of  Saint 
Stephen,  dragging  along  Turkish  captives.  The  place  is 
the  shrine  of  the  splendor  of  the  Medici.  Those  vases  of 
Oriental  sardonyx,  red  and  flowered  Sicilian  jasper,  carne- 
lian,  and  amethyst,  were  made  for  Lorenzo  the  Magnifi- 
cent. That  casket  of  rock-crystal,  lined  with  silver, 
fashioned  by  Valerio  Vincentino,  aided  by  his  daughter, 
with  the  tiny  scenes  of  the  Nativity,  the  Presentation  in 
the  Temple,  the  Flagellation  and  Passion,  set  in  channelled 
columns,  with  the  exquisite  enamelled  cornice,  attributed 
to  Cellini,  was  a  wedding  gift  of  Catherine  de'  Medici. 

The  cases  contain  articles  intended  to  decorate  the  altar 


270  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

of  the  Medicean  mausoleum  of  San  Lorenzo  and  the  reli- 
quary constructed  by  Michelangelo.  The  ciborium  of 
Buontalenti  is  a  not  less  suggestive  ruin  of  columns  of 
Siennese  agate,  Bohemian  verde,  rock-crystal  set  with 
garnets,  topaz,  turquoise,  pearls,  rubies,  and  brilliants, 
and  statuettes  of  the  Apostles,  of  silver-gilt,  alabaster, 
agate,  and  chalcedony.  Yonder  urns  and  vases  were  exe- 
cuted by  the  order  of  Clement  VII.  The  curious  portrait 
of  Cosimo  II.,  with  the  perspective  of  a  magnificent  room, 
the  figure  raised,  with  the  head,  hands,  and  legs,  as  well 
as  the  lining  and  ermine  of  the  mantle  of  Volterra  jasper, 
the  hair  of  Egyptian  flints,  the  dress  of  gold,  enamel, 
chalcedony,  and  red  jasper,  sprinkled  with  three  hundred 
diamonds,   still  surprises  by  its  richness. 

Cosimo  I.  takes  precedence  here  in  his  own  massive 
personality.  The  column  of  crystal  commemorates  the 
destruction  of  the  Siennese  Republic.  The  jewelled  pic- 
ture of  the  Piazza  Signoria,  in  pietradura  and  gold,  the 
work  of  Maestro  Giorgio  Gaffuri  of  Milan,  with  a  sky  of 
lapis-lazuli,  jasper,  and  heliotrope  for  the  houses  and 
pavement,  arches  of  the  palace  of  rock-crystal,  has  the 
statue  of  Cosimo  in  its  place  (erected  after  his  death), 
the  David,   Hercules,   and  Marzocco  of  gold. 

The  exquisite  shapes  of  crystal  emanated  from  the  labo- 
ratory and  studios  of  a  prince.  Cups  of  aqua-marine, 
vases  of  emerald,  masks  of  turquoise  with  diamond  eyes, 
beakers  with  enamelled  handles,  belong  to  his  reign. 

Behind  this  luxury  of  beautiful  design  in  fragile  form 
is  the  still  more  characteristic  phase  of  hewing  and 
polishing  rock  masses.  The  red  and  gray  tints  of  the 
granite  of  obelisks,  the  golden  mellowness  of  alabaster, 
the  black  stone  of  Greece  and  Egypt  known  as  paragone, 
the  green  and  yellow  serpentine,  did  not  escape  the  eye 
of  the  merchant  prince  any  more  than  his  contemporaries, 
the  Roman  pontiffs  and  the  rulers  of  rival  Italian  States. 


FROM  THE  LABORATORY  OF  A  PRINCE.  271 

Cosimo  I.  sought  further.  He  found  the  fragments  of 
porphyry  to  make  the  basin  of  the  fountain  of  the  Boboli 
Gardens.  Porphyry  finds  a  mediaeval  association  in  the 
mind  with  the  flowing  waters,  artificial  grottos,  and  ilex 
walks  bordered  with  statues,   of  stately  gardens. 

The  method  of  cutting  the  hard  surface  had  been  lost  or 
abandoned  as  too  difficult  since  the  classical  age.  There 
was  a  theory,  derived  from  the  Egyptians,  that  the  red 
stone,  mottled  with  white  spots,  was  more  tender  at  the 
date  of  excavation  from  the  quarry,  and  became  hard  on 
exposure  to  the  sun,  rain,  and  ice,  as  the  columns,  statues, 
fountains,  and  masses  of  building  took  form.  The  temple 
of  Bacchus  outside  of  Rome,  the  sepulchre  of  Saint 
Constanza,  daughter  of  the  Emperor  Constantine,  adorned 
with  groups  of  children,  holding  fruit  and  garlands, 
tombs,  sarcophagi, —  did  Cosimo  I.  dream  of  equalling  the 
excellence  of  these  works  ?  Had  the  statue  in  the  Far- 
nese  Palace  at  Rome  or  the  wolf  of  the  courtyard  aroused 
his  admiration  ? 

That  remarkable  man,  Leo  Battista  Alberti,  accom- 
plished in  every  branch  of  science,  art,  and  literature,  who 
designed  for  his  friend,  Cosimo  Ruccellai,  the  fagade  of 
the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  the  Ruccellai  Palace 
in  the  Via  Vigna  Nuova,  with  the  opposite  loggia^  as  well 
as  the  chapel  representing  the  sepulchre  at  Jerusalem 
in  the  Church  of  San  Pancrazio,  had  been  interested, 
as  an  architect,  to  the  working  afresh  of  porphyry.  To 
wield  a  saw  of  copper  without  teeth  between  two  workmen 
with  emery  powder  and  water,  or  to  invent  a  system  of 
wheels  for  use  where  the  chisel  was  ineffectual,  resulted 
in  a  threshold  of  a  doorway,  and  eighteen  antique  letters. 
Alberti  abandoned  the  task. 

When  Ascanio  Colonna  gave  an  antique  tazza  of  por- 
phyry to  the  Pope  Julius  III.,  and  Michelangelo  was  re- 
quested to  mend  it,  he  gave  up  the  work  as  fruitless. 


272  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Not  so  Duke  Cosimo  I.  In  his  laboratory  of  a  prince 
certain  herbs  were  boiled  in  water,  and  the  steel  tempered 
in  the  liquid  to  the  requisite  durability  to  cut  porphyry. 
What  other  distillations  may  not  have  taken  place  in  the 
laboratory  of  a  ruler  who  has  been  named  a  second 
Tiberius  ? 

And  Francesco  del  Tadda  ?  He  is  one  of  the  most  re- 
mote and  faint  scintillations  of  the  star  rays  shed  abroad 
on  his  path  by  Savonarola.  The  details  of  his  career  are 
meagre,  perhaps  inaccurate,  and  yet  they  have  a  flavor  of 
the  age.  We  have  ample  scope  for  meditation  in  his 
story. 

He  belonged  to  the  Ferrucci  family,  of  which  Francesco 
da  Siena  was  one  member,  and  Andrea  di  Piero  Ferrucci, 
architect  and  sculptor,  another.  The  latter  went  to  Na- 
ples in  the  employ  of  Don  Ferrante,  after  whose  death  he 
returned  to  Tuscany.  He  sculptured  the  Ancona  of  the 
high  altar  in  the  Cathedral  of  Fiesole  and  the  half  figure 
of  Marsilio  Ficino  in  the  Florence  Duomo,  and  began 
the  monument  of  Antonio  Strozzi  in  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
completed  by  his  scholars. 

Francesco  di  Giovanni,  called  Cecco  del  Tadda,  was 
taught  by  Cosimo  I.  to  temper  tools  with  the  juice  of 
plants,  to  cut  porphyry,  as  harder  than  other  substances 
except  gems,  —  flint,  agate,  onyx,  and  jasper.  Such  is 
the  simple  record.  The  results  of  his  toil  were  several 
busts  of  the  Medici,  a  sarcophagus  mounted  on  a  bronze 
pedestal,  and  the  statue  of  Justice  on  the  column  in  the 
Piazza  Santa  Trinita. 

Cecco  del  Tadda  worked  in  the  Duomo  with  his  brother- 
in-law.  The  two  sculptors,  full  of  lively  intelligence, 
discussed  the  topics  of  their  time  as  they  labored,  the 
elder  doubtless  inspired  with  disapproval  of  the  rash  im- 
pulsiveness of  youth.  In  the  church  where  Savonarola 
had  preached  they  spoke  much  of  the  monk  of  St.  Mark. 


FROM  THE  LABORATORY  OF  A  PRINCE.  273 

The  brother-in-law  was  a  bitter  adversary,  while  the 
young  Cecco  warmly  defended  the  memory  of  the  re- 
former. It  is  almost  the  sole  revelation  of  character  we 
have  of  him,  apart  from  the  admirable  industry  that  shaped 
the  porphyry,  —  a  fervent  and  possibly  illogical  advocacy 
of  the  dead,  on  the  part  of  a  young  workman  of  another 
generation.  He  may  have  been  brought  under  the  influ- 
ence of  Savonarola's  followers, —  the  Piagnoni  and  the  chil- 
dren who  carried  the  Christ  Child  in  the  procession  of 
Palm  Sunday, —  and  the  more  readily  resented  the  scoffing 
comments  of  the  brother-in-law  in  the  temple  where 
Savonarola's  voice  had  died  to  silence.  The  circumstances 
of  this  advocacy  recurred  to  the  sculptor  in  after-life,  in 
the  fashion  of  an  age  largely  influenced  by  dreams,  por- 
tents, and  miracles. 

Francesco  del  Tadda  was  swept  away  by  the  tide  that 
carried  so  many  artists  to  Rome.  He  took  service  under 
the  Pope  Clement  VH.,  as  a  bombardier,  and  endured 
the  horrors  of  the  siege.  He  was  smitten  with  the 
plague,  and  carried  in  a  cart  to  a  lazzaretto  near  St 
John  Lateran.  On  the  way  two  Dominican  friars  met 
him.  Aroused  by  their  approach,  and  inspired  with 
a  sense  of  awe,  the  sick  man  fell  on  his  knees  in  the 
cart.  One  of  the  Dominicans  took  an  ointment  from 
his  wallet  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  the  fore- 
head of  the  plague-stricken  patient,  saying  in  a  clear 
voice,  "This  I  do,  because  you  have  had  faith  in  Pra 
Girolamo. " 

The  monk  vanished ;  the  malady  was  instantly  healed ; 
and  the  artist  always  believed  that  Savonarola  had  ap- 
peared to  him  in  person,  for  his  defence  of  the  reformer's 
memory  in  the  Florence  Duomo  in  his  youth. 

The  secret  of  working  in  porphyry  was  transmitted  to 
his  son,  Romulus,  and  through  the  latter  to  his  son, 
Pompeo,  who  worked  in  Rome  under  Paul  V.     Another 

18 


274  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

member  of  the  family,  Andrea,  made  some  statues  in  the 
Boboli  Gardens  during  the  reign  of  Cosimo  II. 

The  secret  of  cutting  porphyry  by  means  of  the  tools 
tempered  in  the  laboratory  of  a  prince  ranks  with  the 
guarding  in  the  family  of  the  Delia  Robbia  enamel,  and 
the  glass-making  of  the  Venetian  Islands. 

Emerging  from  the  Uffizi,  the  equestrian  statue  of  Co- 
simo I.  confronts  us  in  the  Piazza  Signoria.  He  has  the  as- 
pect of  a  conqueror,  and  rides  his  horse  gracefully.  When 
Giovanni  da  Bologna  lowered  the  scaffolding  about  the  com- 
pleted work,  he  was  wise  enough  to  conceal  himself  behind 
the  partition,  and  listen  to  the  comments  of  the  spectators. 
A  peasant  remarked  that  the  forelegs  of  the  horse  lacked 
the  callosities  on  the  inner  side.  Gian  da  Bologna  raised 
the  partition  again,  and  cleverly  added  the  requisite  rough- 
nesses in  the  parts  indicated  by  the  rustic  critic. 

Cosimo  I.  is  seen  at  his  best,  seated  on  his  charger  in 
the  square.  He  is  the  ruler  of  the  city,  the  collector  of 
statues,  books,  rock-crystal,  and  the  patron  of  porphyry- 
cutting. 

Following  the  Arno  bank  once  more  back  to  the  Via 
Tornabuoni,  the  clouds  have  parted,  and  transient  sun- 
shine glows  on  Justice  on  her  granite  column. 

The  crowd  ebbs  and  flows  below;  brilliant  equipages 
sweep  along  in  the  afternoon  drive  to  the  Cascine;  the 
flower- venders  are  abroad.  The  latest  scion  of  the  race 
of  Strozzi  emerges  from  the  gateway  of  the  palace,  and 
possibly  there  is  some  descendant  of  the  Medici  in  the 
group  of  young  men  gathered  about  the  Nobles'  Club. 

The  statue  of  Justice  remains  as  the  work  of  Francesco 
del  Tadda.  Without  religious  sentiment  in  composition, 
and  the  caprice  of  a  prince  in  defying  a  rival  in  a  first 
erection,  the  sunshine  of  the  passing  years  glorifies  the 
memory  of  the  obscure  artist.  Justice  holds  no  similar 
written  scroll,  yet  resembles  in  this  respect  the  statue  of 


FROM  THE  LABORATORY  OF  A  PRINCE.  275 

Saint  John  in  the  Strasburg  Cathedral  on  which  Sabina 
von  Steimbach  worked.  "  The  grace  of  God  be  with  thee, 
0  Sabina,  whose  hands  from  this  hard  stone  have  fash- 
ioned my  image ! " 

There  is  another  curious  association  with  the  statue  of 
Justice  in  the  Piazza  Santa  Trinita.  The  story  still 
circulates  in  the  sphere  of  poor  servants  of  how  years  ago 
a  valuable  ornament  of  pearls  disappeared  from  a  palace 
of  the  vicinity,  and  a  valet  taxed  with  the  theft  was  cast 
into  prison,  while  protesting  his  innocence.  In  Florence, 
as  elsewhere,  no  crime  of  the  king's  highway  was  more 
severely  dealt  with  than  the  command :  "  Thou  shalt  not 
steal."  The  pet  magpie  of  the  household,  a  true  G-azza 
ladra,  passed  unnoticed ;  and  the  servant  pined  in  prison 
until  such  time  as  workmen,  ascending  the  column  of 
Justice  to  make  some  needful  repairs,  discovered  the  stolen 
jewels  hidden  at  her  feet.  The  bird  had  seized  the  glit- 
tering bawble,  and  flown  across  to  the  lofty  perch  to  con- 
ceal it. 

On  the  right  the  door  of  the  Vieusseux  Library  is  ever 
open  to  the  student,  the  politician,  the  mere  loiterer  de- 
sirous of  amusing  an  idle  hour.  Of  these  all  may  lose 
themselves  in  the  minds  of  other  men,  like  Charles  Lamb, 
or  enter  a  youth  and  emerge  a  citizen  of  the  world,  as 
Leopardi  in  boyhood  haunted  the  library  of  his  father  in 
his  native  town  of  Recanati. 

Night  falls  as  we  retrace  our  steps  to  the  Shrine  of  the 
Five  Lamps.  The  sunset  has  faded,  and  clouds  again  ob- 
scure the  sky.  A  cold  wind  sweeps  down  from  Fiesole 
through  the  streets  of  the  town. 

The  black  box  has  been  placed  on  a  bracket.  We  take 
it  down  and  seek  to  open  it,  mindful  of  the  merchant's 
instructions.  In  vain !  The  box  presents  a  smooth  sur- 
face that  baffles  every  effort.  We  restore  it  to  the  bracket, 
vexed  and  mystified.     After  all,  it  is  better  closed. 


276  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Perhaps  the  box  is  not  old,  but  made  by  some  modem 
marble-cutter.  Perhaps  Duke  Cosimo  I.  was  not  as 
wicked  as  his  enemies  would  fain  brand  him  to  posterity. 
The  door  of  the  antiquity  shop  is  locked,  but  surely  the 
master  and  his  cat  are  chuckling  together  within. 


-m  m        gkMtmMt^ 

Ijip. 

' 

m 

li\m  \'— " 

THE  BRONZE  BOAR.  277 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE  BRONZE  BOAR. 


A  FTER  the  living  Florence  cat,  richly  furred  and 
•^^^  purring  with  drowsy  affability  in  every  shop-door, 
the  most  genial  welcome  accorded  to  the  stranger  is  that 
of  the  bronze  Boar  of  the  Mercato  Nuovo. 

11  Porcellino  (The  Little  Pig)  is  altogether  a  friendly 
beast.  Generations  of  children  have  stood  on  tiptoe  to 
drink  eagerly  of  the  pure  stream  of  water  flowing  from  his 
dripping  jaws.  Generations  of  citizens  and  country  people 
alike  have  found  in  this  fountain  a  familiar  and  favorite 
rendezvous  of  a  lifetime;  hence,  no  doubt,  the  caressing 
diminutive  of  the  town  name,  11  Porcellino, 

The  surroundings  and  associations  of  the  Boar  are  al- 
ways picturesque.  Approach  the  spot  in  the  tender  twi- 
light, and  the  crowding  roofs,  the  narrow  and  irregular 
streets  branching  off  to  the  left,  and  the  animal  rising  on 
the  pedestal  as  if  about  to  trot  away  from  the  place  for 
the  night,  have  the  neutral  tones  and  delicate  lines  of  an 
etching. 

Traverse  the  Via  Porta  Rossa  from  the  wide  thorough- 
fare, the  Via  Tornabuoni,  in  the  night,  skirting  the  Loggia 
of  the  Mercato  Nuovo,  and  the  Boar  may  be  discovered 
crouching  back  in  the  heavy  shadows  of  the  arches,  his 
smooth  flank  glistening  in  the  starlight,  when  the  scene 
resembles  a  photograph. 

Day  glorifies  the  Boar  with  a  wealth  of  color,  as  the 
tide  of  varied  humanity  ebbs  and  flows  about  the  statue. 


278  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Usually  a  bustling  crowd  pervades  the  loggia  during  the 
hours  of  noonday.  Now  the  arches  are  hung  with  knitted 
or  woven  woollen  shawls,  pale  blue,  white,  vermilion,  and 
striped  stockings;  and  the  populace  chaffers  over  prices 
in  the  possible  purchase  of  these  luxuries.  Now  the  mar- 
ket of  straw  is  held  here,  —  golden  bundles  cut  in  lengths, 
and  whole  sheaves  piled  up  on  all  sides,  —  with  the  ruddy 
country  folk  standing  in  groups,  their  cloaks  and  coats  of 
many  seasons  faded  to  yellowish-green  and  russet  tints, 
and  the  women  and  girls  plaiting  long  strips,  their  fingers 
moving  with  the  mechanical  rapidity  of  knitting,  as  they 
hover  about  in  the  crowd.  A  few  loose  straws  float  in  the 
basin  of  water  at  the  feet  of  the  Boar,  and  some  children 
launch  a  fleet  of  wild  poppies  as  boats,  while  their  seniors 
discuss  the  price  of  grain. 

The  Flower  City  of  late  years,  by  a  happy  inspiration, 
has  elected  to  hold  a  weekly  sale  of  sweet  or  rare  plants 
in  the  loggia.  Where  could  a  more  beautiful  setting  be 
found  for  a  flower-show  in  any  capital  ?  Our  Boar  is  em- 
bedded in  bloom,  and  the  sunshine  strikes  sparks  of  lus- 
trous gold  from  the  bronze  head  and  shoulders.  His  aspect 
is  full  of  benevolence.  If  he  is  kin  to  the  wild  boars 
hunted  in  the  Maremma  by  king  or  courtier,  his  tusks  do 
not  savagely  wound  assailants.  The  contadini  may  recog- 
nize in  him  a  cousin  to  the  lean  black  pigs,  acorn-fed, 
driven  down  the  Casentino  from  the  Apennines,  where 
the  shepherds  and  the  mountaineers  make  the  humble 
utensils  out  of  pine  and  beech  wood, — the  ladles,  bowls, 
broom-handles,  pepper-boxes,  and  sieves  that  go  forth  over 
all  Italy,  Germany,  and  the  Orient  in  emulation  of  the 
French  industry  of  the  Vosges. 

In  March  weather  the  columns  of  the  loggia  are  heaped 
with  pink  hyacinths,  daffodils,  and  carnations,  starring 
silvery-gray  tendrils  of  leaves. 

Another  morning  the  branches  of  white  lilies  of  waxen 


THE  BRONZE  BOAR.  279 

perfection  of  cup  and  hue,  imitated  in  silver-work  on 
church  altars,  and  carried  by  Carlo  Dolci's  angel  of  the 
Annunziation  in  the  picture  of  the  Pitti  Gallery,  load  the 
air  with  a  sickly  sweetness  of  heavy  perfume.  Again, 
the  anemones,  crocus,  primrose,  and  violet  hold  a  luxu- 
riant riot  of  possession  of  the  historical  loggia^  or  the 
homely  lilac  makes  a  bower  of  soft,  snowy  bloom. 

The  loiterers  who  frequent  the  Mercato  on  such  occa- 
sions, lured  hither  by  the  flowers,  like  the  honey-seeking 
bees  and  wasps,  have  a  certain  interest  to  the  speculative 
and  philosophical  mind,  if  man's  noblest  study  be  truly 
mankind.     The  crowd  meets  to  greet  and  gaze  at  one  an- 
other.    A  rubicund  old  English  gentleman  chooses  a  sprig 
of  heliotrope  for  his  button-hole,  without  deep  political 
significance  of  appertaining  to  any  league,  but  to  forget 
his  gout  in  the  exquisite  fragrance  of  the  blossom.     The 
mature  American,  with  no  less  doleful  reminders  of  the 
inexorable  summer  duty  before  him  of  seeking  Vichy  or 
Carlsbad,  briskly  bargains  for  a  bunch  of  richest  clove- 
scented  pinks,  and  is  a  boy  again  in  his  grandmother's 
garden  while  smelling  luxuriously  the  cluster  in  his  hand. 
He  feels  himself  to  be  a  second  Columbus  in  discovering 
the  identical  pink  on  the  Arno  bank.     The  German  savant 
beams  on  all  the  world  through  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles 
as  he  buries  his  broad  countenance  in  a  huge  bouquet  of 
rosebuds   and   camellias.       Why   does   that    lady  blanch 
deadly  pale,  and  thrust  aside  a  mass  of  jonquils,   as  if 
the  scent  stifled  her  ?     Ah,  the  endless  chain  of  memories 
clinging  to  fragile  flowers !     Family  emblems,  the  favor- 
ites of  those   long  dead,   pleasure  in  certain  distinctive 
colors,  the  reminder  of  some  anniversary  of  rare  joy  and 
good-fortune, —  all  these  emotions  may  be  tasted  in  the 
flower-market  of  Florence,  sentiments  as  complicated  and 
mysterious   as  the  diverse  characters  of  the  plants,  here 
a  leaf  bathed  in  dew,  shrinking  from  rude  contact  with 


280  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

currents  of  air  and  changes  of  season,  there  a  jewelled 
chalice  from  tropical  forests  artfully  baited  to  entrap  and 
devour  insects. 

Here  as  readily  as  in  other  towns  the  public  may  be 
accepted  botanically.  In  the  flower-market  humanity, 
vigorous,  sound,  and  wholesome,  is  discoverable,  together 
with  many  a  prickly  cactu'fe-growth,^ "the  Carlyles  of 
vegetation, "  —  the  odd,  capricious  orchids,  and  the  cosmo- 
politan hybrids  of  gardening  civilization,  sprays,  plumes, 
myriads  of  blossoms  like  butterflies,  having  a  fanciful 
loveliness,   airiness,  and  originality. 

The  human  nettle  abounds.  "Though  you  stroke  the 
nettle  ever  so  kindly,  yet  will  it  sting  you, "  says  the  prov- 
erb. Boileau  affirmed  that  people  are  born  spiteful. 
Other  human  flowers  have  bloomed  and  faded  here  in  past 
centuries. 

In  1490  the  spot  was  enclosed  in  a  scaffolding,  and  hung 
with  superb  arras  by  the  wise  old  citizen,  Cosimo,  to 
entertain  Galeazzo  Sforza  of  Milan,  who,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen  years,  was  travelling  to  neighboring  Italian  duchies, 
as  the  Czarewitch  now  visits  Constantinople  and  India, 
or  the  Prince  of  Naples  the  Crimea  and  St.  Petersburg. 
Wise  old  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  a  very  affable  host,  Milan 
being  always  feared  by  Florence  in  all  political  machina- 
tions, allowed  his  grandson,  Lorenzo,  to  do  the  honors  to 
the  guest  in  this  day-ball,  where  sixty  young  Florentines 
danced  a  hallata,  with  beautiful  girls.  Frequent  changes 
of  costume  occurred  among  the  participants  to  vary  the 
graceful  entertainment. 

What  a  picture  the  item  of  history  suggests !  The  elders 
looked  on,  —  Cosimo,  Pater  Patriae,  noting  the  elegance 
of  the  young  Lorenzo  without  an  intuition,  possibly,  of 
the  consummate  abilities,  as  yet  undeveloped,  of  the  Mag- 
nificent of  his  race.  Pope  Pius  II.,  also  the  guest  of  the 
Flower  City,  the  pontiff  of  refined  and  epicurean  tastes, 


THE  BRONZE  BOAR.  281 

fond  of  smiling  landscapes,  and  a  daily  fare  of  pheasants, 
partridges,  boar,  or  succulent  pdtSs,  evinced  gentle  ap- 
proval of  juvenile  gayety.  The  Pope,  received  with  suitable 
honors,  had  entered  the  town,  riot  riding  on  a  mule,  but 
borne  in  a  brocaded  litter  to  his  lodging  in  the  convent  of 
Santa  Maria  Novella  by  four  great  lords  sojourning  in 
Florence,  —  Sismondo  di  Malatesta,  Seigneur  of  Rimini, 
the  rulers  of  Forli  and  Faenza,  and  another.  Galeazzo  re- 
ceived, as  gifts,  silver  basins  engraved  with  the  arms  of 
the  Florentine  commonwealth,  goblets,  ewers,  and  comfit- 
stands. 

Twelve  years  later  Galeazzo  again  visited  Florence, 
when  recently  married  to  Bona  of  Savoy,  on  the  occasion 
of  those  religious  pageants  in  which  the  Church  of  Santo 
Spirito  was  burned  to  the  foundations.  Many  other  flower 
shows  have  been  held  here  in  the  history  of  the  town,  and 
Time  has  ruthlessly  mown  down  the  blossoms.  What  are 
the  dancers  and  the  lenient  elders  now  save  withered 
leaves  scattered  on  the  wind,  the  robes  of  velvet  and  satin 
shrunken  and  limp,  the  gilded  and  jewelled  crowns  tar- 
nished, broken,  forgotten  ? 

And  our  friendly  bronze  Boar  ?  Pietro  Tacca  fashioned 
him  presumably  from  the  model  of  the  antique  boar  in  the 
vestibule  of  the  Uffizi ;  and  in  the  later  days  of  Medicean 
glory  11  Porcellino  was  placed  on  his  pedestal  of  fountain 
and  adopted  by  the  city. 

Grateful  posterity,  on  whom  he  conferred  so  much  tran- 
quil enjoyment  in  this  single  work,  might  wish  to  know 
more  of  the  sculptor.  What  manner  of  man  was  Pietro 
Tacca  ?  Details  of  his  career  are  meagre.  Vasari  men- 
tions him  as  Pietro  Tacca,  of  Carrara,  fellow-pupil  of 
John  of  Bologna,  with  the  Flemish  Pietro  Francavilla, 
who  designed  the  statues  of  the  Seasons  on  the  Trinity 
Bridge.  Other  labors  of  Pietro  Tacca  were  the  monument 
of  Duke  Ferdinand  de'  Medici  at  Leghorn,  and  casting  the 


282  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

bronze  equestrian  statue  of  the  same  prince  in  the  Piazza 
of  the  Annunziata  of  Florence. 

We  have  another  glimpse  of  Pietro  Tacca,  full  of  pathos, 
and  not  devoid  of  a  touch  of  humor.  Cinelli  states  that 
when  Ravenna  gave  Dante  burial,  the  Archbishop  had  a 
cast  made  of  the  poet's  head  in  the  sepulchre  which  subse- 
quently came  into  the  possession  of  John  of  Bologna,  who 
bequeathed  it  to  Tacca.  The  latter  showed  the  treasure 
to  the  Duchess  Sforza,  and  the  noble  dame  stole  the  cast, 
carrying  it  off  wrapped  in  a  scarf  of  green  cloth.  Tacca 
was  much  grieved  by  the  loss. 

Such  are  the  glimpses  of  character,  good  and  bad,  the 
odd  threads  to  be  disentangled  from  the  silken  skein  of 
life  in  the  Flower  City,  —  the  great  lady  unscrupulously 
laying  hands  on  a  coveted  new  toy,  and  the  poor  artist 
left  aghast  and  bereft  of  his  inherited  relic. 

On  the  20th  of  November,  a  ray  of  sunshine  penetrates 
the  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  and  slanting  through  the 
window,  rests  on  the  Boar  in  bronze  placed  on  a  little 
carved  bracket. 

The  antiquarian  of  the  shop  yonder  is  the  magician  who 
holds  the  neighborhood  in  the  meshes  of  his  web.  Only 
the  other  day  the  Boar,  purporting  to  be  an  antique  bronze, 
three  inches  in  length,  sat  among  the  festoons  of  lace,  the 
ivory  carvings,  and  enamels  of  his  casement. 

Now  the  animal  beholds  himself  reflected  in  a  mirror 
on  all  sides,  as  it  were.  He  is  down  on  the  writing-desk, 
chipped  out  of  green  Prato  marble,  in  guise  of  paper- 
weight, and  he  is  carved  in  Volterra  alabaster  on  the  lid 
of  a  casket  in  the  corner. 

The  ray  of  brilliant  autumn  sunshine  floating  in  the 
barred  casement  is  a  reminder  that  it  is  the  birthday  of 
the  Queen  Margherita.  To  ramble  abroad  is  to  find  ban- 
ners fluttering  in  the  cool  breeze,  a  hint  of  frosty  crispness 
in  the  morning  air,   and  all  the  fountains  of  the  city 


THE  BRONZE  BOAR.  283 

spouting  in  silvery  sprays,  glittering  shafts,  and  revolving 
fans  and  wheels,  sprinkling  the  green  sward  of  parks  and 
terraces.  A  fountain  playing  in  the  sunshine  reminds 
one  of  the  Queen  of  Italy. 

If  we  leave  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  pass  the 
Cathedral,  walk  along  the  Via  Calzajuoli  to  the  Via  Porta 
Rossa,  at  the  angle  of  the  Piazza  Signoria,  and  by  this 
narrow  way  gain  the  Mercato  Nuovo,  we  find  the  bronze 
Boar  enthroned  among  the  flowers. 

The  loggia  is  filled  with  chrysanthemums.  The  central 
space  is  a  true  Temple  of  the  Sun,  in  amber  hues,  lovely 
Japanese  blooms,  downy  saffron,  and  anemone,  of  perfect 
form,  straw  tints,  mandarin  and  nankeen  yellows,  lemon, 
pale  gold,  varying  from  tiny  buttons  to  great  balls. 
Lustrous  brown  crowns,  pyramids  of  copper-color  with 
broad  petals,  orange-tipped,  and  wreaths  of  dark  crimson 
flowers  frame  the  Boar  with  a  marvellous  richness  of 
effect  on  the  November  day. 

The  white  marguerite  amid  fine  green  leaves  flanks 
the  enclosure,  lending  a  significance  to  the  occasion. 
Every  customer  of  the  market  carries  or  should  sport  a 
small  bouquet  of  daisies  on  the  20th  of  November.  The 
sympathetic  little  flower  may  always  be  accepted  as  the 
astrologer  of  lovers,  or  be  accorded  wholly  to  royalty  by 
the  sojourner  in  the  land,  the  petals  plucked  off  in  medi- 
tation as  swift  as  the  passage  of  a  sunbeam  athwart  the 
loggia^  filled  with  the  blended  tones  of  the  chrysanthe- 
mums, weaving  a  fabric  even  more  gorgeous  —  work  of  the 
autumn  day  —  than  the  costumes  of  the  dancers  of  past 
years,  recalling,  as  the  shredded  blossoms  flutter  to  the 
ground,  that  the  House  of  Savoy  has  boasted  of  nineteen 
Margarets  in  long  and  glorious  annals. 

Whiter  than  snow,  the  first  petal  represents  the  austere 
sister  of  Umberto  HI.,  and  daughter  of  Amadeus,  who 
died  on  the  Island  of  Cyprus  in  1148,  during  the  Crusades. 


284  THE  LILY  OP  THE  ARNO. 

She  became  a  Cistercian  nun  in  1150.  The  second  is 
veined  with  the  pink  of  warm  youth,  as  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  of  her  epoch,  the  celebrated  Marguerite 
of  Geneva,  reputed  to  have  allowed  Thomas  of  Savoy  to 
abduct  her  instead  of  leaving  her  to  espouse  the  King  of 
France.  Landgravine  of  Alsace,  mother  of  the  unfortu- 
nate Beatrice,  second  wife  of  King  Manfred ;  Marchesa  of 
Monferrato,  smitten  by  the  terrible  plague  described  by 
Boccaccio,  and  many  others  to  the  last  silvery  petal,  the 
star  of  Italy,  the  single  chrysanthemum,  preserves  its 
purity  still. 

The  bronze  Boar  does  not  wear  a  chaplet  of  daisies  about 
his  neck,  but  several  flowers  float  in  the  brimming  basin 
of  the  old  fountain  of  the  market-place. 


A  SILVER  LAMP.  285 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


A  SILVER  LAMP. 


T^LORENCE  wears  her  most  stately  aspect  as  a  funeral 
-*■  city.  Through  all  the  lapse  of  centuries  her  citizens 
have  revelled  in  funeral  pomp,  dignified  and  sedate  in 
detail,  without  the  garish  display  of  more  southern  prov- 
inces, and  devoid  of  the  ghastly  aspect  of  the  ghostly 
barges  gliding  over  the  lagoons  to  the  Cemetery  Island 
at  Venice. 

On  a  March  evening  when  the  lamps  of  the  Shrine 
have  been  lighted,  a  cortege  passes  the  window.  The 
great  banner  of  the  Misericordia,  glittering  with  metallic 
embroideries  and  fringes,  is  borne  aloft  above  the  black- 
robed  brothers,  with  a  bier  covered  with  a  rich  pall  and 
crowned  with  funeral  wreaths  in  their  midst,  priests  in 
white  vestments,  and  penitents  carrying  torches.  The 
event  is  sufficiently  commonplace.  A  Florentine  noble 
has  died,  and  the  confraternity  of  the  Misericordia  is 
transporting  his  mortal  remains  to  its  chapel  for  the 
night,  on  the  Piazza  of  the  Duomo,  whence  he  will  be 
taken  for  interment  to  a  villa  in  the  Casentino.  The  black 
banner  and  the  moving  crowd  obscure  the  twinkling  stars 
of  the  Tabernacle  for  a  moment,  and  then  pass  on,  with 
candles  and  torches  flaring,  and  the  rising  and  falling 
intonation  of  chanting  voices  becoming  fainter  in  the 
distance.  A  wandering  ray  from  the  Shrine  once  more 
falls  across  the  barred  casement 


286  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  inmate  of  the  chamber  obeys  a  whim,  and  lights 
the  dark  interior.  From  the  central  arch  of  the  ceiling 
swings  the  silver  lamp  on  wrought  chains.  A  Mahometan 
lamp  that  once  might  have  been  one  of  the  eight  hundred 
pendent  amid  the  columns  of  the  mosque  of  Cordova 
soon  burns  in  a  distant  corner,  with  the  Buddhist  lamp  of 
a  Japanese  house  opposite,  flanked  by  a  battered  copper 
cup  resembling  an  inverted  Byzantine  cupola  from  a 
Samoyed  tent,  and  which  contains  a  thick  wax  taper. 
Several  ancient  Egyptian  lamps  in  the  form  of  enamelled 
tulips  and  lilies  gleam  on  brackets.  Wicks  are  dipped  in 
the  shallow  receptacles  of  the  curious  filagree  frame  of 
beaten  brass,  in  the  semblance  of  the  seven-branched  can- 
dlestick of  the  Morocco  Jews,  held  by  a  massive  hand, 
and  attached  to  the  wall,  over  a  fragment  of  faded  brocade. 
The  silver  lamp,  fed  with  perfumed  oils,  sheds  abroad  a 
mild  radiance  that  gradually  dominates  all  feeble  or  er- 
ratic illumination  in  the  more  remote  angles  of  the  apart- 
ment. If  many  creeds  and  peoples  are  represented  by  the 
different  lights,  the  ray  of  Christianity  is  the  most  pene- 
trating and  enduring. 

The  antiquarian  brought  the  relic  here,  and  suspended 
it  by  the  chains,  his  manner  betraying  unusual  animation. 
He  affirmed  that  it  is  an  ecclesiastical  lamp  of  great  age 
and  much  value  of  historical  interest.  It  belonged  to  the 
ancient  Church  of  San  Andrea  in  the  Old  Market,  demol- 
ished to  form  the  new  piazza  for  the  equestrian  statue  of 
Victor  Emanuel.  The  archaeologist,  in  the  vein  of  modern 
grumblers,  as  well  as  earlier  writers,  censuring  all  ruth- 
less destruction  of  old  buildings  and  shrines,  may  well 
lament  the  disappearance  of  the  little  church  mentioned 
as  standing  in  the  eighth  century,  and  having  attached  a 
small  convent  of  nuns,  the  first  established  within  the 
city  walls.  A  curious  custom  is  reputed  to  have  been 
practised  in  this  sanctuary  even  during  the  past  century. 


A  SILVER  LAMP.  287 

On  the  Festa  of  San  Andrea  a  lamp  had  a  vase  of  glass 
attached  containing  fish,  thus  indicating  that  the  Apostle 
was  a  fisherman.  These  fish  appertained  to  the  first  per- 
son who  entered  the  church,  and  as  this  one  was  invari- 
ably the  prior,  who  opened  the  door  from  within,  he 
enjoyed  a  good  frittura. 

Has  the  antiquarian  spoken  the  truth  in  stating  that 
the  silver  lamp  came  from  the  Mercato  Vecchio  ?  Did 
the  first  Abbess  Eadburga,  sister  of  the  Bishop  Rodingo, 
who  died  in  852,  ever  gaze  on  the  pure  flame  pulsing  up 
from  the  metal  cup  ?  Did  the  chains  sway  from  a  sunken 
arch  of  a  lower  chapel,  at  an  earlier  date,  or  belong  to  the 
latest  period  of  Barocco  restoration  ?  Did  the  subdued 
radiance  glow  on  the  campanile,  the  little  square  tower 
of  stone,  with  three  tiers  of  windows,  adorned  with 
columns  ?  Was  it  quenched  in  the  destructive  fire  that 
ravaged  a  large  portion  of  the  town  in  1304  ? 

^'Entretenez  une  lampe  dans  le  sanctuaire.  La  lampe 
est  le  symbole  de  la  religion  du  coeur,  qui  vit  toujours, " 
writes  Ernest  Renan. 

The  spiritualized  faculties  easily  acquire  complete  as- 
cendancy at  such  an  hour.  Journeys  around  the  quiet 
chamber  afford  ample  scope  for  revery  without  departing 
from  the  Street  of  the  Watermelon.  If  the  use  of  the  fire 
of  the  altar  as  the  symbol  of  Deity  marked  the  advance  of 
the  races  from  Persia  along  the  shores  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean, the  flicker  of  the  catacomb  lamp  on  the  shelf 
yonder,  of  greenish  metal  with  classical  shape  of  handle 
and  apertures  for  flame,  suggests  the  vital  spark  of  a 
buried  yet  unquenchable  creed,  and  the  adjacent  Hebrew 
beaked  copper  lamp  no  less  vividly  recalls  the  excommu- 
nication of  Spinoza  from  the  religious  body  in  which  he 
had  been  reared.  The  central  flame  of  the  silver  lamp 
represents  the  ever-burning  luminary  of  the  Romish  faith. 

Gradually  the  beautiful  and  graceful  emblem  absorbs 


288  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

entire  attention  of  contemplation,  and  by  a  swift  transition 
you  are  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Croce  on  a  March  day, 
listening  to  a  requiem  celebrated  for  the  recently  deceased 
Florentine  citizen,  the  Marchese  Gino  Capponi. 

On  the  mind  of  a  stranger,  just  arrived  in  the  Flower 
City,  the  scene  was  one  to  make  an  indelible  impression. 

In  the  centre  of  the  Pantheon  of  Florence  rose  a  sump- 
tuous catafalque,  with  gigantic  candles  burning  at  the 
four  corners,  and  guarded  by  the  house-servants  of  the 
dead  nobleman  clad  in  liveries  of  vivid  scarlet.  These 
lackeys  afforded  the  sole  spot  of  color  in  the  temple. 
The  vast  assemblage  formed  a  sea  of  blackness  in  the 
chill,  colorless  sanctuary,  and  the  parchment  sheets  with 
a  deep  mourning  margin,  distributed  by  an  usher  at  the 
entrance,  rustled  and  fluttered  in  the  fingers  of  the  guests 
like  dead  leaves.  On  the  left  the  filagree  iron  gates  of  a 
large  chapel  revealed  rank  above  rank  of  veiled  ladies, 
enveloped  in  crepe  draperies.  The  main  altar,  decked 
with  sable  adornments,  concealed  and  muffled,  as  it  were, 
the  blended  voices  of  the  singers  in  the  choir-stalls  of 
the  rear.  The  atmosphere,  redolent  of  incense  and  hot 
wax,  was  cold  yet  stifling,  as  if  such  life  as  remained  in 
the  silent  audience  and  drooping  mourners  were  under- 
going some  subtle  process  of  being  extinguished  beneath  a 
lugubrious  funeral  pall. 

The  object  of  these  honors  was  worthy  of  all  possible 
respect  and  esteem.  Nay,  more,  he  was  a  type  of  his  day, 
possessing  rare  interest  even  to  the  stranger  from  across 
the  sea. 

The  Marchese  Gino  Capponi  was  a  patriot  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  term,  a  man  of  letters,  a  liberal  friend  and 
patron  of  arts  and  science,  a  religious  soul  in  the  faith 
of  his  fathers,  and  a  thoughtful  observer  of  his  time, 
who  beheld  Europe  old  and  decrepit  in  contrast  with  those 
two  young  giants,   Russia  and  America.     He  was  a  de- 


A  SILVER  LAMP.  289 

scendant  of  the  Capponi  family,  noted  in  the  records  of 
the  city  in  1250  as  included  in  the  corporation  of  the 
Guilds,  and  having  their  houses  in  the  Fondacci  of  Santo 
Spirito  beside  the  Vettori.  First  noted  on  the  side  of 
the  people  in  1343,  there  was  a  Gino  Capponi,  who  was 
the  friend  and  partisan  of  Rinaldo  degli  Albizzi  against  the 
Medici.  His  son,  Neri,  took  part  with  great  valor  in  the 
wars  against  the  Visconti  and  the  Sforza.  The  son  of 
Neri  was  the  famous  Piero,  who  destroyed  the  treaty 
before  the  eyes  of  the  French  king,  Charles  VIII. ,  and 
threatened  to  ring  the  bells  of  Florence  with  unusual 
vehemence.  Girolamo,  brother  of  Piero,  founded  the  line 
whence  descended  the  object  of  public  homage  in  Santa 
Croce  of  our  day.  The  Capponi  were  gonfaloniere  of  the 
Republic,  and  acquired  riches  in  banking  and  mercantile 
pursuits.  They  had  a  house  of  business  at  Lyons,  and  in 
other  towns  of  France.  In  1596,  a  Capponi  was  appointed 
superintendent  of  the  mint  of  the  Duke  of  Bavaria.  An 
old  man,  the  dead  for  whom  the  catafalque  had  been 
raised  in  the  aisle  of  Santa  Croce,  and  blind  for  many 
years,  dwelling  in  the  spacious,  charming  palace  of  the 
Via  San  Sebastiano,  with  the  frescos  bright  upon  the 
walls  of  valiant  Piero  Capponi  destroying  the  treaty,  and 
of  Ferruccio  at  Volterra,  with  the  sunny  gardens  where  the 
birds  sing  blithely.  The  last  words  of  the  deceased  noble- 
man might  be  inscribed  on  the  walls  of  Santa  Croce  in 
characters  of  gold  for  all  succeeding  generations  to  heed : 
"  Perhaps  had  I  not  been  stricken  with  blindness  I  should 
be  more  discontented  with  myself  for  all  I  should  have 
accomplished,  while  as  it  is,  the  little  that  I  have  achieved 
saves  me  from  remorse." 

He  was  born  in  1793,  the  same  year  that  Joachim  Ros- 
sini, Giovanni  Mastai,  and  Pius  IX.,  saw  the  light.  His 
parents  were  the  Marquis  Pier  Roberto,  a  man  of  melan- 
choly temperament,    formal  manners,   scrupulous   in   all 

19 


290  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

observances  of  religion,  and  having  in  his  heart  no  other 
emotions  than  loyalty  to  God,  the  family,  and  his  prince, 
the  Grand-duke  of  Tuscany,  and  Maddalena  Frescobaldi, 
energetic  in  will  and  action,  loving  and  hating  with  equal 
passion.  The  great  lady  seems  to  have  belonged  to  the 
Florentine  type  of  history,  a  gallery  of  portraits  worthy 
of  study.  These  were  no  pale  and  pure  poetical  ideals  of 
femininity,  but  full  of  the  color  and  life  of  their  race  and 
time,  —  Dame  Acciajuoli  defending  her  home  from  French 
soldiers,  the  mother  of  Cosimo  I.  prudently  watching  over 
the  tender  years  of  the  son  of  Giovanni  delle  Bande  Neri, 
or  the  wife  of  Filippo  Strozzi  striving  to  finesse  on  his 
behalf  with  her  own  powerful  family,  the  Medici. 

The  French  Revolution  had  followed  its  course,  and  the 
General  Bonaparte  rose.  Tuscany  was  occupied  in  1799 
by  French  troops.  The  Grand-duke,  Pietro  Leopoldo, 
who  was  allied  with  Austria  and  Spain,  fled.  The  Mar- 
chese  Pier  Roberto  Capponi  displayed  his  devotion  by  fol- 
lowing his  prince  into  exile.  The  wife  evinced  the  courage 
of  the  Florentine  lady  by  remaining  in  Florence  to  con- 
front the  foe.  The  Palazzo  Capponi  was  occupied  by 
French  officers  and  soldiers  of  whose  sojourn  the  regret- 
table record  remains  that  they  beat  the  cook,  abused  the 
servants,  broke  the  furniture,  ordered  and  failed  to  pay. 

In  the  year  1800  the  family  sought  Vienna,  and  the  battle 
of  Marengo  took  place.  In  manhood  Gino  Capponi  beheld 
the  last  act  of  the  great  drama  in  the/^fe  at  the  Tuileries, 
when  he  conversed  with  Napoleon.  He  made  long  jour- 
neys to  Sicily  and  England,  where  he  gave  that  respectful 
study  to  the  British  government,  even  to  the  election  hust- 
ings, which  was  so  characteristic  of  the  Italian  of  the 
period.  His  friendships  with  Lord  Minto,  Lord  Lans- 
downe.  Earl  Russel,  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  and  Lady 
Morgan  endured  for  life.  Ugo  Foscolo  was  then  a  pictu- 
resque figure  of  the  exile.     He  travelled  in  Holland  and 


A  SILVER  LAMP.  291 

Germany.  At  Brussels  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
French  painter,  David,  who  had  been  banished  from  his 
own  country  as  a  regicide.  He  visited  Waterloo.  He 
sought  memories  of  Pope  Adrian  at  Utrecht,  assured  that 
a  Flemish  pontiff  must  have  proved  ridiculous  to  the 
mocking  Romans,  after  the  luxurious  and  elegant  Leo 
X.  More  interesting  was  the  sojourn  of  the  Florentine 
in  Rome  in  the  early  portion  of  the  century,  when  Cha- 
teaubriand was  the  French  minister,  and  always  associated 
with  St.  John  Lateran;  the  excursions  on  the  desolate 
Campagna,  the  meditations  on  the  Via  Appia  and  the 
Ponte  Nomentano,  the  lingering  to  witness  a  rich  sunset 
at  Santa  Croce  in  Gerusalemme,  the  intimacy  with  Lamar- 
tine,  as  secretary  of  Legation,  and  Gortschakoff,  —  all 
these  matters  may  be  read  in  the  writings  of  the  blind 
patriot. 

Returned  to  his  proper  sphere  in  the  Flower  City,  he 
was  elected  to  the  Accademia  della  Crusca,  and  helped  to 
found  the  Antologia.  Giusti  died  in  the  palace  on  the 
Via  San  Sebastiano,  and  his  works  were  collected  with 
religious  care.  Pietro  Colletta,  returned  from  Moravia, 
was  given  a  villa  on  the  Bologna  road  wherein  to  write 
his  history  of  Naples,  and  illustrious  men  were  to  be  met 
there,  —  Forti,  Leopardi,  Giordani,  and  Frullani.  That 
vigorous  personality,  King  Victor  Emanuel,  invariably 
paid  a  visit  to  Gino  Capponi,  when  he  arrived  in  Florence. 

The  parchment  of  the  funeral  ode  rustled,  and  the  Mass 
went  on.  Did  all  that  vast  throng  ponder  on  the  earthly 
career  of  the  dead  ?  Gradually  they  faded  to  shadows  in 
turn,  and  you  beheld  more  clearly  their  surroundings.  The 
great  Church  of  Santa  Croce  rose  to  its  full  proportions, 
and  dwarfed,  overpowered,  the  human  element  gathered 
within  its  walls. 

During  that  glorious  period,  after  the  death  of  Frederick 
n.,  when  the  commonwealth  decided  to  build  a  Bargello, 


292  THE   LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

span  the  river  with  a  bridge  of  Santa  Trinity  and  strike 
the  first  gold  florin,  it  was  projected  to  erect,  in  majestic 
form,  a  church  for  the  Frate  Minori.  Arnolfo  di  Cambio, 
who  saw  in  a  vision  the  towers,  walls,  and  dome  of  the 
fair  city,  must  have  beheld  as  well  the  severe  line  of 
these  arches,  the  immense  height  of  the  roof,  the  beauty 
of  the  apsis  and  adjacent  chapels,  the  great  round  window 
of  colored  glass  above  the  entrance,  designed  by  Ghiberti. 
The  mighty  architect,  divining  completion  in  his  own 
thought,  surely  grasped  the  aim  of  two  naves  in  the  shape 
of  a  Latin  cross,  the  principal  nave  cut  in  three  by  seven 
arches,  the  octagonal  pilasters,  the  semicircle  of  chapels, 
containing  precious  frescos,  and  the  choir  behind  the 
main  altar,  enriched  by  the  ancient  family  of  the  Alberti, 
with  the  inlaid  wood-work  in  foliage  and  figures  wrought 
by  Manno  Mannucci,   called  Manno  de'  Cori. 

The  Franciscans  were  held  in  veneration  by  the  Repub- 
lic, and  many  benefits  bestowed  on  the  order.  They  were 
intrusted  with  the  administration  of  the  Hospital  of  the 
Misericordia,  at  San  Casciano,  and  the  monastery  of 
Monticelli.  In  addition,  they  kept  in  a  closed  chamber 
the  custody  of  the  urn  used  in  the  election  of  magistrates. 
A  Franciscan  divided  with  a  Dominican  the  honors  of 
being  present  at  the  renewal  of  the  magistrates,  and  as- 
cended the  Ringhiera.  Walter  de  Brienne,  Duke  of 
Athens,  preferred  to  be  received  as  a  guest  of  the  convent, 
in  1342,  to  lodging  in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  or  the 
Bargello. 

A  hush  of  profound  stillness,  succeeded  by  the  clang  of 
a  bell,  and  the  black  banner  of  the  Misericordia  began  to 
part  the  ripples  of  crowd  to  circulate  around  the  cata- 
falque.    The  dramatic  effect  was  startling  yet  impressive. 

Echo  awakened  in  those  subterranean  chapels  which 
form  a  second  church  beneath  the  stupendous  edifice. 
Here  noble  families  found  sepulchre,   and  various  com- 


A  SILVER  LAMP.  293 

panies  established  different  religious  orders  to  issue  forth 
at  Christmas  and  Easter  with  donations  for  the  poor,  to 
succor  the  sick,  to  celebrate  Mass,  with  the  aid  of  a  monk 
of  Santa  Croce,  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Bargello,  and  with 
the  sanction  of  the  Grand-duke  Ferdinand  L,  at  least 
to  visit  the  most  secret  dungeons,  and  often  to  obtain  the 
release  of  the  prisoners. 

Where  are  they  now,  —  Company  of  San  Francesco  del 
Martello,  established  by  devout  men,  such  as  the  gardener 
who  worked  in  the  Frate's  garden  in  1332,  Company  of 
the  Lauds,  Company  of  Gesu,  of  Sant'  Eligio  degli  Orefici, 
of  the  Casa  del  Loreto  ?  The  chapels  are  deserted ;  dust 
and  ashes  remain  of  the  banners,  standards,  and  arms. 

Thought  escaped  from  the  gloom  by  the  lateral  nave  on 
the  right  into  the  beautiful  cloister  where  the  sunshine 
played  over  the  grass,  and  the  sculptured  marble  of  tomb 
and  column.  Lo !  the  sound  of  the  bell  startled  the  ear 
even  here,  and  across  the  portal  of  the  council -chamber 
of  the  Tribunal  of  the  Inquisition  from  1254  to  1782 
rested  a  dark  shadow.  Pain,  terror,  and  despair  must 
have  passed  along  this  corridor,  the  judged  and  to  be 
condemned  of  centuries.  O  Lord,  how  long  ?  The  cry 
was  addressed  to  these  stones,  more  pitiful  than  the  heart 
of  man,  in  this  temple,  completed  after  the  return  from 
exile  of  worthy  Michele  di  Lando  in  1383,  by  a  communal 
provision,  as  a  mirror  of  civilization  and  the  greatness  of 
country  for  all  time. 

To  the  imperishable  honor  of  the  Grand-duke  Leopold 
I.  the  Inquisition  was  abolished,  and  the  instruments  of 
torture  destroyed  in  sight  of  the  rejoicing  citizens. 

Sunshine  and  shadow  play  through  the  arches  of  the 
cloister.  Laughter  and  jest  as  readily  succeed  sombre 
thoughts  and  dark  deeds.  Thus  the  memory  of  the  Bar- 
bary  ape  belonging  to  a  merry-hearted  painter.  Rosso  del 
Rosso,  who  dwelt  in  a  house  of  the  Corso  dei  Tintori,  in 


294  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

1500,  will  recur  to  the  memory,  haunted  by  rack  and 
chain.  The  painter's  window  overlooked  an  inner  cloister 
connected  with  the  infirmary  of  the  convent  and  the  for- 
esteria^  together  with  the  garden,  which  boasted  of  a 
pergola  covered  with  fine  grapes,  pride  of  the  monks. 
The  ape  stole  the  fruit.  The  gardener  complained,  but 
the  depredations  continued,  until  the  offender  was  brought 
to  trial  before  the  Tribunal  of  the  Eight  of  the  Balia,  who 
gravely  condemned  the  miscreant  to  wear  such  a  weight 
and  chain  on  his  leg  as  should  prevent  his  climbing. 
Full  of  malice  and  diabolical  intelligence,  the  ape  con- 
trived to  gain  the  roof  of  the  gardener's  cell,  and  with  his 
irons  tear  up  the  tiles,  dancing  about  in  ungovernable 
rage,  so  that  the  rain  came  in  on  the  poor  friar.  The 
sleepy  garden  nook,  the  monks  placidly  enjoying  their 
ripening  grapes,  the  roguish  painter  peeping  down  on  their 
cloistered  paradise,  and  the  sly  Barbary  ape  scaling  the 
wall  to  occasion  a  hubbub  of  indignant  protest  in  the 
community,  —  all  these  elements  belong  to  the  memories 
of  dark  and  austere  Santa  Croce,  as  flowers  spring  from 
ruined  masonry. 

In  the  church  the  sad,  weary  requiem  continued  to 
breathe  forth  sobbing  lamentation,  deep-toned  invocation, 
softened  cadences  of  consolation.  A  pure  tenor  note 
seemed  the  soul  of  Cherubini,  beaten  down  by  failure  and 
discouragement,  and  finally  soaring  in  triumph  of  recog- 
nition to  the  vault  of  this  very  temple.  The  statues  of  the 
tombs  had  a  mute  aspect  of  watching,  without  sharing,  the 
ceremony  of  the  day.  Galileo,  knowing  all  things,  now 
had  gone  forth  to  eternal  contemplation  of  the  heavens. 
Dante  and  Michelangelo  were  shrouded  in  their  own 
memories.  In  modest  nooks  the  Abb^  Lanzi  might  still 
meditate  on  the  Etruscan  language,  Leopoldo  Nobili  inter- 
rogate Nature,  like  Galileo,  Volta,  and  Franklin,  Giovanni 
Lami,  the  encyclopedist,  muse  on  Latin  verse,  or  Count 


A  SILVER  LAMP.  295 

Vittorio  Fossombrone,  who  held  the  destinies  of  Tuscany 
by  draining  the  Val-di-Chiana,  study  still  the  Pontine 
marshes  and  the  Roman  Campagna,  while  the  haughty 
poet,  Alfieri,  who  created  the  tragic  theatre  in  Italy,  bore 
the  impress  of  life. 

Was  the  funeral  service  solely  for  the  person  honored, 
the  Marchese  Gino  Capponi  ?  Other  and  similar  pageants 
seemed  to  rise  through  the  pavement,  and  contest  the 
rights  of  modern  times. 

In  1371,  Messer  Niccold  di  Jacopo  Alberti,  cavalier, 
who  had  been  made  a  gonfaloniere  in  1363,  and  was  es- 
teemed the  richest  Florentine  citizen  of  his  time,  died, 
and  was  buried  in  Santa  Croce.  He  was  brought  to  the 
sanctuary  "  with  much  wax  and  people, "  on  a  bed  of  red 
stuff,  with  gold  draperies  and  embroideries.  Eight  horses 
accompanied  the  bier,  —  one  carrying  the  arms  of  the 
populace,  as  the  deceased  was  a  cavalier  of  the  people; 
another  those  of  the  Guelph  faction,  of  which  party  he 
was  a  captain;  two  were  covered  with  the  armorial  in- 
signia of  his  race ;  yet  another  with  a  banner ;  still  another 
with  a  helmet,  sword,  and  spurs  of  gold.  These  steeds 
were  led  by  grooms  in  rich  attire,  with  mantles  lined  with 
rare  furs.  The  corpse  was  deposited  in  the  church,  and  a 
sermon  preached,  the  relatives  and  household  being  dressed 
in  red,  and  many  families  in  black.  The  early  historian 
dwells  with  especial  complacency  on  the  number  of  torches 
burned  on  this  august  occasion;  seventy -two  surrounded 
the  bier,  and  the  great  arch,  as  well  as  the  entire  church, 
was  similarly  illuminated.  Three  thousand  florins  were 
expended,  and  five  hundred  persons  wept  around  the  bed. 
The  fortune  of  the  knight  amounted  to  three  hundred  and 
forty  thousand  florins,  despite  his  humility,  benevolence 
to  the  poor,  liberality  to  friends,  and  loyalty  to  public 
interests,  which  won  the  love  of  all. 

The  death  of  Messer  Francesco  Rinuccini,  in  the  month 


296  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARKO. 

of  August,  1381,  was  equally  memorable  of  the  funeral 
city.  He  was  interred  with  great  honors.  Fifty  wax 
torches  accompanied  him  to  Santa  Croce,  two  horses  car- 
rying standards,  a  third  the  helmet,  sword,  and  spurs  of 
gold,  a  fourth  covered  with  scarlet  trappings.  The  grooms 
wore  costly  mailtles  bordered  with  fur.  All  of  the  monks 
of  the  community  came  from  the  altar,  bearing  torches, 
and  escorted  the  cortege  to  the  Rinuccini  Chapel  of  the 
sacristy,  where  eight  servants  attired  in  red  velvet  held 
draperies  of  cloth-of-gold  over  the  bier  on  which  reposed 
the  cavalier.  He  was  mourned  by  all  as  a  gentleman 
possessing  every  virtue.  His  fortune  amounted  to  one 
hundred  and  eighty  thousand  florins. 

The  silver   lamp  burns   dim   in  the   silent  chamber. 
The  hour  is  late. 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  297 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

*  THE   STRANGER  COLONY. 

A  N  Italian  gentleman  of  a  southern  province  affirm^ 
■^"^  that  Florence  is  a  vast  hotel  where  the  German, 
the  Russian,  the  Anglo-Saxon,  and  even  natives  from  other 
portions  of  the  country  are  to  be  met  with,  but  the  true 
Florentine  very  rarely. 

L    GALH^EO'S  DISCIPLE. 

"  Come  up  to  the  old  Star  Tower  this  evening,  and  look 
at  the  comet, "  said  the  Astronomer,  pausing  in  the  Street 
of  the  Watermelon. 

"  There  is  a  new  comet,  then  ?  "  queried  the  inmate  of 
the  Florence  Window  in  response.  "What  portents  of 
good  or  of  dire  misfortune  does  an  enlightened  world 
forecast  from  the  augury,  —  Behring's  Straits  Fishery 
problems;  fresh  complications  of  possession  of  Western 
Africa;  renewed  friction  between  France  and  Germany; 
the  Porte  and  the  Shah  of  Persia  in  trouble  ?  " 

The  Astronomer  smiled. 

"The  Traveller  is  compiling  a  volume  on  comets,  in 
popular  scientific  form.     Ask  him  to-night." 

"  Promise  to  read  us  your  completed  poem  of  Galileo, 
then." 

"  My  '  Galileo '  will  never  be  perfected ! " 

"Patience!" 

The  Astronomer  went  his  way. 


298  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

In  the  cold  winter  twilight  the  Tower  of  Galileo  was 
visible  on  the  crest  of  the  hill.  The  uniform  gray  tones 
of  walls,  tower,  and  parapet,  crowned  by  the  weather-cock 
of  an  earlier  hour,  which  blend  so  harmoniously  with 
surrounding  slopes  of  olives,  had  acquired  a  vivid  black- 
ness of  outline,  sharp  and  distinct,  as  seen  with  the  clear 
horizon  beyond,  where  the  crimson  fires  of  sunset  had 
faded  to  an  evening  sky  of  greenish-beryl  tints  peculiar 
to  the  pure  atmosphere  of  Tuscany  and  Umbria. 

The  Astronomer  lifted  his  gaze  from  the  city  outspread 
at  his  feet  to  the  Star  Tower  on  the  height,  inspired  by 
a  sentiment  of  contentment.  All  his  life  he  seemed  to 
have  been  toiling  upward  to  gain  such  a  goal. 

He  was  a  tall  and  slender  man  of  forty-five  years  of  age, 
with  aquiline  features,  blue  eyes  of  an  abstracted  expres- 
sion, and  that  contour  of  pointed  chin  reputed  to  betoken 
obstinacy  of  character.  The  only  son  of  an  American 
home,  the  collegian  had  turned  from  society  to  science, 
imbued  with  the  curiosity  of  an  amateur  rather  than  in- 
spired with  serious  purpose  in  research.  If  astronomy, 
of  all  sciences,  fills  the  mind  of  man  with  general  ideas  of 
a  nature  the  most  foreign  to  daily  and  prosaic  experience, 
this  spoiled  son  of  fortune  would  scarcely  have  sought  the 
firmament  in  weariness  of  this  globe,  as  an  atom  whirling 
through  illimitable  space  among  countless  other  atoms, 
without  the  awakening  of  fervent,  youthful  hero-worship. 
His  hero  was  Galileo  Galilei.  He  had  read  every  avail- 
able work  concerning  the  great  man,  from  the  most  erudite 
German  researches  into  the  Vatican  archives  to  the  most 
modest  form  of  English  tract  issued  by  religious  societies. 
He  had  suffered  all  phases  of  anxiety  and  weakness  in 
imagination,  before  the  Roman  Curia,  with  the  zeal  of 
warm  partisanship.  He  had  rejoiced  in  the  ultimate  fruits 
of  a  triumphant  wisdom.  Then  he  had  escaped  from  the 
petty  thraldom  of  maternal  worldly  ambition  to  visit  the 


J 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  299 

places  associated  with  Galileo,  following  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  philosopher  with  reverence  and  enthusiasm. 

This  later  disciple  had  watched  in  revery  the  move- 
ments of  Maestro  Possenti's  famous  lamp,  suspended  from 
the  arch  of  the  Pisa  Cathedral,  while  clouds  of  incense 
rose  from  the  silver  censers  of  the  altar,  and  the  chant- 
ing voices  of  the  choristers  filled  nave  and  aisle,  albeit  it 
was  not  for  him  to  determine  the  isochronism  of  the  vibra- 
tion of  the  pendulum  by  means  of  testing  the  throbbing  of 
his  own  pulse  at  the  moment.  He  had  lingered  in  silent 
Padua,  and  climbed  the  church  towers  of  Venice  in  com- 
pany with  the  shadowy  host  of  long  dead,  venerable  sena- 
tors, eager  to  employ  the  new  telescope  of  Galileo,  spying 
at  the  ships  on  the  sea,  before  the  inventor  thought  of 
turning  the  glass  in  the  direction  of  the  starry  heavens. 
Florence  and  blooming  Tuscany  had  lured  him,  in  turn, 
from  freedom  of  thought  in  the  Venetian  States  to  sustain 
the  rage  and  jealousy  of  the  ancient  order  of  Aristotelian 
philosophy,  stirred  to  the  most  stagnant  depths  by  bold 
innovation  of  experiment.  He  also  journeyed  to  Rome 
in  a  litter,  thence  returning  to  the  Arno  bank  by  way 
of  Siena,  henceforth  a  prisoner  of  the  Inquisition. 

Inspired  with  profound  interest,  the  modern  Astronomer 
knelt  in  the  little  Church  of  San  Giorgo  because  Galileo 
was  there  permitted  to  receive  the  sacrament  at  Easter. 
Pain  would  he  have  trained  the  vineyards  around  the 
villa  at  Arcetri!  Visiting  the  Torre  del  Gallo,  as  a 
tourist,  he  had  resolved,  like  the  Englishman  who  once 
went  to  Bruges  for  a  week's  sojourn,  and  remained 
twenty  years:  "I  will  dwell  here." 

He  climbed  the  road,  slowly  and  with  marked  deliber- 
ation, from  the  Roman  Gate,  the  length  of  the  Poggio 
Imperiale  to  the  villa  of  the  Grand-duchess  Eleanora, 
and  thence  along  the  crest  of  hill  through  the  suburb  of 
Arcetri  to  the  entrance  of  the  old  tower. 


300  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 

The  quick  Italian  eye,  whether  of  priest  in  wide  black 
hat,  groups  of  soldiers  lounging  in  front  of  the  cavalry 
barracks,  or  peasant  trudging  homeward,  defined  him  as 
"  one  of  those  who  go  about  contemplating  the  world. " 

A  careworn  little  dog,  with  a  grizzled  muzzle,  and  an 
expression  of  anxiety  as  of  taking  care  of  a  mediaeval 
stronghold,  wagged  a  stump  of  a  tail  in  greeting.  The 
old  custodian,  type  of  an  age  "  frosty  yet  kindly, "  brought 
his  keys  to  deposit  with  the  tenant,  in  order  that  the  latter 
might  visit  the  tower,  at  pleasure,  during  the  night. 
The  English  child  smiled  a  welcome  from  a  narrow  case- 
ment above,  his  fair  hair  shining  like  an  aureole  in  con- 
trast with  the  rough,  time-worn  masonry. 

The  Astronomer  entered  a  door  at  an  angle  of  the  court. 
His  abode  consisted  of  a  suite  of  spacious  chambers  hung 
with  heavy  stuffs  and  tapestries,  the  tiles  and  cement  of 
the  floors  concealed  by  rich  Persian  rugs,  and  wood  fires 
in  terra-cotta  stoves  tempering  the  severity  of  winter 
cold. 

The  tenant  pushed  aside  the  curtains  of  one  door  after 
another  to  traverse  the  rooms,  where,  in  the  shadowy 
obscurity  of  the  hour,  the  light  of  candles  fell  here  on  a 
standard  of  armor  beautifully  wrought  of  steel,  or  inlaid 
with  gold  and  silver,  and  there  sparkled  on  the  richly 
blended  colors  of  a  majolica  plaque,  and  the  polished 
surface  of  some  piece  of  cinque-cento  wood-carving.  He 
gained  a  small  chamber  at  the  extremity  of  the  suite 
which  he  had  chosen  for  his  especial  sanctum. 

The  walls  were  hung,  and  the  embrasures  draped,  with 
blue  damask,  and  silk  shot  with  varied  threads,  woven  at 
Lucca,  and  folds  of  the  black  velvet  of  Naples,  —  fabrics 
such  as  Galileo  added  to  the  wedding  dowry  of  his  sisters 
in  his  youth.  The  inlaid  table  of  the  alcove  held  vol- 
umes of  the  master,  bound  in  white  vellum,  and  with  the 
Florentine  Lily  designed  in  gilt  on  the  cover.     Conspicu- 


THE  STRANG  EU  COLONY.  801 

ous  in  the  collection  were  the  "  Messenger  of  the  Stars, " 
and  the  "  Dialoghe  delle  Nuove  Science.  '^  On  the  window 
was  suspended  a  thermometer,  with  a  bulb  of  quaint  de- 
sign, that  Galileo  might  have  fashioned.  The  only  sound 
audible  was  the  slow  and  monotonous  ticking  of  a  very 
ancient  clock  in  the  corner,  whose  swaying  pendulum 
might  have  been  first  set  in  motion  by  Galileo.  A  small 
loadstone  was  placed  on  a  bracket.  The  sole  picture  of 
this  interior  was  a  Saint  Francis,  by  Cigoli,  selected  not 
as  much  for  the  excellence  of  the  work  as  because  the 
painter  proved  himself  a  warm  friend  of  Galileo.  From 
the  centre  of  the  vaulted  ceiling  hung  a  bronze  lamp 
which  resembled  in  form  that  of  the  Duomo  at  Pisa. 
Above  the  door  an  illuminated  scroll  of  parchment  re- 
peated, in  golden  characters,  the  famous,  if  doubtful  in 
authenticity,  E  pur  si  muove. 

Fortunate  is  the  man  with  a  hobby !  Better  still  with 
Euripides :  — 

"  Happy  the  man  whose  lot  it  is  to  know 
The  secrets  of  the  earth.     He  hastens  not 
To  work  his  fellows  hurt  by  unjust  deeds, 
But  with  rapt  admiration  contemplates 
Immortal  Nature's  ageless  harmony, 
And  how  and  when  her  order  came  to  be ; 
Such  spirits  have  no  place  for  thoughts  of  shame." 

Soon  a  party  of  friends  arrived  to  dine,  as  was  their 
occasional  habit,  —  the  English  Painter  from  the  apart- 
ment above  stairs,  the  Sculptor,  calm  and  reticent  in  man- 
ner, the  Churchman,  dry  and  ascetic,  the  Poet,  agitated 
and  self-conscious,  the  Musician,  full  of  vivacity  and 
movement,  and  the  Traveller,  bronzed,  wrinkled,  with  a 
silvery  beard  and  piercing  black  eyes  shaded  by  heavy 
brows,  a  modern  Marco  Polo,  whose  bravery  and  energy 
had  led  him  as  far  as  the  Arctic  Circle  and  the  Desert. 

The  Astronomer  received  these  ffuests  at  the  entrance 


302  THE  LILY  OF  THE  AENO. 

door,  and  conducted  them  to  table.  A  delicate  though 
substantial  meal  was  discussed  with  deliberation,  after 
which  the  Poet  was  urged  to  read  his  latest  verses,  the 
host  having  firmly  declined  to  reveal  any  of  his  own  lucu- 
brations on  Galileo. 

The  Poet  produced  a  roll  of  manuscript,  and  modestly 
requested  a  critical  judgment  of  a  Tuscan  idyl  which  did 
not  lack  a  certain  felicity  of  expression,  although  it  might 
be  devoid  of  the  grace  of  a  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  or  a  Poli- 
tian,  in  similar  vein.  The  author  speedily  found  himself 
in  the  position  of  Tasso  in  submitting  the  "Jerusalem 
Delivered  "  to  a  council  of  friends,  when  Sperone  Speroni 
declared  the  unity  of  action  altogether  defective,  Scipio 
Gonzaga  pronounced  the  episode  of  Erminia  as  too  im- 
probable, while  Armida  and  her  enchanted  garden  were 
too  glowing,  and  Silvio  Antoniano  wished  all  love  scenes 
ruthlessly  cut  out.  Thus  the  Traveller  detected  an  incor- 
rect version  of  an  Oriental  fable,  the  Churchman  disap- 
proved of  a  palpably  heterodox  sentiment,  and  the  Musician 
was  fastidious  as  to  the  rhythmical  flow  of  the  measure 
adopted. 

The  host  arose  and  proposed  a  visit  to  the  tower  to  ad- 
mire the  comet.  The  little  English  child,  pet  of  the  table 
at  dessert,  slipped  after  the  others,  wondering  and  wake- 
ful, eager  to  see  all. 

Oh,  the  splendor  of  the  winter  night  on  Galileo's  Tower ! 
The  dome  of  heaven  in  the  clear  Tuscan  atmosphere  spar- 
kled with  a  dazzling  multitude  of  stars.  On  the  horizon 
the  comet  was  visible,  growing  from  a  slender  golden  arrow 
to  a  fiery  orb  with  long  filaments  of  light  streaming  in 
the  rear,  as  the  surrounding  darkness  deepened.  Galaxies 
of  brilliant  constellations  paved  a  pathway  for  this  myste- 
rious stranger,  as  it  were ;  and  planets  glowed  and  waned 
with  pale  emerald  and  ruby  fires  before  the  awe-inspiring 
messenger  of  distant  spheres.     The  Traveller  leaned  on 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  303 

the  parapet,  and  soliloquized  on  these  harbingers  of  woe 
that  inspired  terror  in  superstitious  minds  for  so  many 
ages.  He  counted  on  his  fingers  the  notable  occasions  in 
her  history  of  war,  famine,  and  flood,  when  the  Flower 
City  had  trembled  at  the  advent  of  one  of  these  golden 
arrows  above  her  range  of  surrounding  hills.  He  mused 
on  the  dread  of  Charles  V.  that  his  own  speedy  death  was 
majestically  announced  by  the  dawning  of  a  comet. 

"  What  is  the  ideal  of  the  beautiful  ? "  queried  the  As- 
tronomer.    "  Star  worlds  ?  " 

"No;  a  stainless  soul,"  protested  the  Churchman. 

"  Sound, "  suggested  the  Musician. 

"  Color, "  asserted  the  Painter. 

"  Form, "  said  the  Sculptor. 

"  Verse,  of  imperishable  eloquence, "  added  the  Poet. 

The  Traveller  shook  his  head,  and  was  silent. 

The  child  nibbled  a  chocolate  bonbon,  and  the  keen 
wind  blew  back  his  golden  hair  like  the  comet's  scintil- 
lating train.  He  did  not  know  what  his  elders  were 
talking  about,  and  it  sounded  to  him  like  rubbish,  yet  he 
must  listen,  even  if  he  propped  his  sleepy  eyelids  open 
with  his  fingers.  Later  the  host  found  the  truant  curled 
up  behind  a  window-curtain,  and  bore  him  away  to  bed  in 
his  arms. 

The  Traveller  departed,  enveloped  in  a  loose  caftan 
lined  with  fur,  faithful  companion  of  many  a  long  journey 
on  sledges  over  snowy  Norwegian  and  Swedish  wastes. 
He  paused  a  moment  to  contemplate  the  sky. 

"Yes,  Galileo's  star  worlds,"  he  meditated.  "Who 
knows  how  many  travellers  are  climbing  mountains,  fath- 
oming glaciers,  and  tracing  rivers  to  their  source  on 
yonder  planets  at  this  moment  V  Nay,  they  may  be  writ- 
ing about  comets,  as  well." 

A  great  door  opened  on  the  dark  Via  dei  Bardi,  and  he 
disappeared. 


304  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

"  The  ideal  of  the  beautiful, "  thought  the  Poet,  pausing 
in  the  arches  of  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  and  gazing  down  into 
the  river,  where  the  reflection  of  a  star  trembled  in  liquid 
depths.  He  took  the  roll  of  manuscript  from  his  breast, 
tore  the  sheets,  and  tossed  the  fragments  to  the  stream, 
repeating  slowly :  — 

"  He  who  descends  unhonor'd  to  the  grave, 
Leaves  of  himself  on  earth  such  vestige  slight 
As  smoke  in  air,  or  foam  upon  the  wave.'* 

The  old  bridge  wrapped  in  shadows  and  deserted  of  all 
traffic  at  this  hour,  and  the  river  flowing  beneath,  made 
no  response  to  human  longing  in  the  breast  of  the  Poet. 

"  What  is  the  ideal  of  the  beautiful  ?  "  thought  the 
Musician,  humming  a  strain  of  his  last  popular  waltz,  as 
he  paused  at  the  city  gate  to  light  a  cigarette.  A  street 
lamp  cast  a  wavering  ray  on  a  palace  built  of  huge  blocks 
of  rough  stone,  like  a  fortress,  whence  issued  the  gay 
and  chirping  notes  of  a  mandolin,  emanating  from  the 
porter's  den. 

The  Musician  rapped  on  the  grated  casement  with  his 
cane. 

"  I  have  need  of  thee,  Beppo, "  he  called. 

The  tinkling  of  the  mandolin  ceased;  and  a  youth  of 
the  true  Florentine  type  emerged,  small,  wiry,  pale,  his 
curly  hair  blown  about  by  the  wind,  and  alike  indifferent 
to  sleep  or  cold. 

Together  master  and  pupil  sought  a  church  of  the 
vicinity,  and  unlocked  a  narrow  door  at  an  angle  of  the 
cloister.  The  Musician  drew  a  coil  of  wax  taper  from 
his  pocket,  kindled  the  wick,  and  led  the  way  to  the  organ- 
loft.  Beppo,  alert  and  cheerful,  lighted  the  clusters  of 
candles  in  the  brackets,  and  vanished  to  fill  the  instru- 
ment with  the  requisite  volume  of  air. 

The  Musician  seated  himself  at  the  organ  in  the  dark 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  305 

and  silent  church,  where  the  saints  of  the  pictures,  the 
angels  of  the  frescos,  and  the  Florentine  citizens  in  their 
tombs  were  his  audience  at  this  hour.  A  gigantic  Christ, 
austere  of  mien,  with  a  golden  vault  of  mosaic  for  back- 
ground, seemed  to  gaze  down  sternly  from  the  tribune  on 
puny  mortal  effort.  Did  the  organist  feel  some  subtle 
influence  of  these  surroundings,  as  his  fingers  wandered 
over  the  keys  ?  From  fragmentary  notes,  verging  on 
dissonance,  to  a  gradually  blended  cadence  of  subdued 
harmonies,  he  sought,  groped  feverishly  and  fitfully,  until 
he  found  the  clew  to  his  thoughts,  the  solution  of  his 
souPs  torment,  in  the  swell  of  most  divine  utterances. 
The  stars,  set  high  in  the  firmament,  with  the  plume  of 
comet  sweeping  across  the  zenith,  signified  to  his  senses 
sound,  in  which  the  order  of  tones  from  one  C  to  the  next 
above  became  audible  without  break  or  interruption.  The 
longing  for  something  better  than  the  present,  mingled 
with  the  innate,  primitive  fear  of  something  worse,  pierced 
by  the  sweetness  of  sympathy  and  consolation,  filled  the 
church  as  with  the  rush  of  mighty  wings. 

The  Musician  quitted  the  place  abruptly,  and  climbed 
to  a  high  chamber  opening  on  a  loggia  of  the  Piazza 
Santa  Maria  Novella,  where  he  wrote  a  fresh  composition. 
Purged  of  the  dross  of  the  theatre  by  the  evening  hour  in 
the  old  Star  Tower,  baptized  by  the  kindling  inspirations 
of  the  dark  church,  did  his  ear,  spiritualized  in  all  power 
of  perception,  actually  hear  the  harmony  of  the  spheres  ? 

"  What  is  the  ideal  of  the  beautiful  ?  "  the  Sculptor 
pondered  in  the  morning,  frowning  at  the  mass  of  clay 
before  him,  in  his  studio  of  the  Piazza  delP  Indipendenza, 
while  graceful  shapes  were  visible  around  him, — the  fan- 
cies of  an  active  brain  already  taking  wing  in  plaster  and 
marble.  "  Wherein  exists  perfect  beauty  save  in  form  ?  " 
His  fingers  grasped  the  clay.  He  forgot  time  and  place, 
hunger  and  thirst,    as  he  wrought.      His  parched  lips 

20 


306  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 

repeated,  meclianically,  with  Goethe:  "Art  still  has 
truth,  take  refuge  there." 

When  he  closed  hia  eyes,  he  beheld,  as  in  a  vision,  a 
form  rising  from  a  block  of  purest  Carrara  marble,  re- 
leased by  the  magic  of  his  own  chisel,  and  winging  its 
way  over  the  sleeping  earth. 

"What  is  the  ideal  of  the  beautful?"  The  Painter 
opened  the  sash  and  thus  interrogated  the  tardy  dawn. 

His  rest  had  been  disturbed  by  haunting  images,  elusive 
and  mocking,  even  as  the  sketches  and  pictures  scattered 
about  the   atelier  resembled  the  fragments  of  dreams. 

"  Wherein  lies  beauty  save  in  color  and  light  ? " 

He  took  up  his  palette,  manipulating  red  through 
orange,  yellow,  blue,  green,  indigo,  and  violet.  He 
sighed  hopelessly.  He  saw  Monte  Morello,  the  adjacent 
slopes,  and  the  valley  beyond  on  an  April  afternoon, 
with  rain-clouds  and  sunset  contending  for  mastery  of 
sky  and  rock. 

"  The  colors  of  a  paint-box  are  so  muddy  and  dull  in  com- 
parison with  the  pure  tints  of  the  heavens,  the  topaz,  sapphire, 
and  ruby,  the  hues  without  a  name,  the  ineffable  effulgence  of 
glory." 

The  child  laughed  as  he  ate  his  oatmeal  porridge.  Tran- 
sitions were  without  startling  shocks  to  his  years,  and 
he  had  scarcely  emerged  from  the  fairyland  of  slumber. 
Later  he  ran  about  the  paths  to  take  counsel  of  the 
flowers,  but  the  flowers  were  all  dead.  He  knew  the 
scarlet  poppies,  the  daffodils,  the  hyacinths,  and  violets 
that  bloomed  here  in  the  springtime,  when  the  rosy  al- 
mond blossoms  mingle  with  the  soft  gray  foliage  of  the 
olives.  At  length  he  found  a  tiny  yellow  bud  of  the  cow- 
slip tribe,  and  carried  it  to  the  Astronomer,  who  was 
pacing  the  terrace.  "  Here  is  a  comet  that  grew  in  the 
grass,"  laughed  the  child. 


THE   STRANGER   COLONY.  807 

The  Astronomer  accepted  the  gift,  quoting:  — 

"  Flowers  are  the  alphabet  of  angels,  whereby 
They  write  on  hills  and  fields  mysterious  truths." 

On  Galileo's  Tower,  beneath  the  winter  starlight,  and 
with  the  mysterious  comet  visible  above  the  hills,  each 
of  these  men  of  diverse  mould  had  grasped  for  a  fleeting 
moment  the  ideal  sought. 


II.    THE  GOD  MARS. 

On  the  June  morning  the  Archaeologist  strolls  into  the 
Street  of  the  Watermelon,  greets  the  Antiquarian,  and 
disappears  through  the  narrow  door  of  the  shop,  in  com- 
pany with  the  proprietor  and  the  attentive  cat. 

The  Archaeologist  is  a  small,  dry  man,  with  refined 
features,  clear  eyes  of  a  mild  expression,  and  a  gray  Van 
dyck  beard.  He  is  one  of  those  unobtrusive  persons  who 
pass  unnoticed  in  the  crowd.  The  pedestrian  may  meet 
half-a-dozen  little  old  men  on  the  Florence  pavement 
daily  who  closely  resemble  him.  Of  Slavic  nationality, 
he  comes  with  the  winter,  and  when  he  once  more  departs 
northward  he  reminds  one  of  the  migratory  birds,  — the 
storks  and  the  swallows.  He  vanishes  until  autumn  frosts 
bring  back  the  swallow  en  route  for  more  distant  shores, 
while  his  wings  bear  him  no  farther  than  the  Arno  bank. 

The  Archaeologist  is  the  happiest  of  all  the  frequenters 
of  the  Flower  City.  He  is  never  slighted,  bored,  envious, 
or  disappointed.  The  Florentine  population  reveals  its 
best  traits  in  his  case.  Assured  of  his  friendly  interest 
and  sympathy  by  long  experience,  neither  sharp-witted 
trickery  nor  mendicancy  expect  much  of  his  slender  purse. 
He  is  not  rudely  thrust  aside  or  ignored  on  that  account. 

"  He  is  not  rich,  but  he  has  a  good  heart, "  is  the  popu- 
lar verdict  on  this  foreigner.    Florence  allows  him  to  have 


308  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

his  own  way,  responda  with  civility  to  his  modest  de- 
mands, respects  his  varied  acquirements,  and  often  dis- 
cusses matters  of  history  or  of  scientific  research  with 
him,  at  length.  The  Flower  City  is  like  Thackeray's 
mirror  of  society.  Frown  in  a  surly  fashion,  and  it  will 
readily  return  the  hostile  glance ;  smile,  and  the  glass  as 
speedily  reflecte  your  own  amiability. 

The  antecedents  of  the  Archaeologist  are  known  to  few. 
One  infers  that  a  laborious  life  in  college,  library,  shop, 
or  the  inheritance  of  some  tiny  legacy,  on  the  borders  of 
the  Baltic  Sea,  has  enabled  him  to  realize  his  dreams, 
and  seek  Italy.  He  rents  a  furnished  room,  narrow  and 
chill,  in  the  household  of  a  worthy  chemist  on  one  of  the 
crooked  streets  in  the  rear  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio.  He 
rambles  about  the  market-place,  partaking  of  the  food  of 
the  citizens,  at  a  very  trifling  expense,  much  more  fre- 
quently than  he  seeks  a  restaurant,  or  hotel  table  d^hdte; 
here  tidbits  of  fish,  polenta^  artichoke,  and  the  flowers 
of  the  squash,  dipped  in  batter,  frying  to  a  crisp  brown 
tint  in  the  bubbling  oil  of  the  casserole  over  the  charcoal 
brazier,  in  the  door  of  the  cook-shop,  tempt  him ;  there  the 
portions  of  boiled  ham,  roast  beef,  Bologna  sausage,  and 
Gorgonzola  cheese  invite  to  a  more  substantial  repast ;  or 
fruit,  and  all  the  delicate  varieties  of  bread  made  by 
English,  Swiss,  or  Viennese  bakers  await  him.  Possibly 
he  accepts  these  trifles  of  daily  life  as  possessing  a  deeper 
significance  than  the  mere  nourishment  of  the  body. 
Thus  he  has  been  known  to  waylay  the  vender  of  candied 
fruit  on  the  Trinita  Bridge,  and  purchase  the  segments 
of  sticky  pears,  or  sugared  oranges  in  the  brass  dish,  not 
from  any  fondness  for  the  delicacy,  but  because  he  traces 
a  marked  Etruscan  origin  of  speech  in  the  aspirated  cry  of 
"  Caramella, "  rendered  by  the  cockney  Florentine  as  "  Hara- 
mella. "  He  has  been  further  known  to  sit  on  a  wall  in 
the  country  by  the  hour,  with  the  motive  of  beguiling  an 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  309 

intelligent  young  contadtino  to  describe  to  him  incidents 
of  the  last  harvest  season,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  pictu- 
resqueness  of  the  language  employed,  and  the  felicitous 
turns  of  expression  of  this  naive  son  of  the  soil,  so  nearly 
akin  to  Latin  sources  in  the  mind  of  the  listener.  He 
invariably  pauses  to  have  his  penknife  sharpened  on  the 
wheel  of  the  tall  old  knife-grinder  who  turns  out  gigan- 
tic feet  in  walking,  at  the  angle  of  the  fish  footmen  in 
"  Alice  in  Wonderland, "  and  whose  deliberate,  melodious 
call  rings  through  the  streets  with  the  sweetness  of  a  bell, 
marking  an  order  of  things  passing  away,  in  contrast  with 
the  harsh,  jerking,  and  rapid  utterance  of  a  rising  genera- 
tion of  the  craft.  He  delights  in  a  certain  dexterous 
master  of  marionettes  who  exhibits  his  puppets  in  a 
shabby  little  theatre  of  a  damp  street  lighted  with  a  row 
of  petroleum  lamps,  musing  on  the  wit  of  Stentorello,  the 
follies  of  the  Neapolitan  Polcinello,  the  pompous  stupidi- 
ties of  the  Bolognese  doctor,  while  joining  in  the  laughter 
of  the  children  and  the  young  soldiers  of  the  audience. 
The  shambling  boot-black  at  the  corner  will  wing  his  way 
on  distant  errands  for  the  Archaeologist,  all  for  gratitude 
that  the  latter  cured  a  cough  with  a  mysterious  powder 
contained  in  a  folded  paper,  one  severe  season,  and  be- 
stowed the  coat  taken  from  his  own  back  in  addition. 

The  stranger  of  the  Swallow  tribe  is  a  friend  of  the 
middle-aged  priest,  a  fellow-lodger  in  the  apartment  of 
the  chemist,  and  deeply  interested  in  the  hardships  of  the 
routine  of  a  parish  celebrant.  He  is  equally  a  friend  of 
the  Waldensian  pastor  from  Torre  Pellice  in  the  Cottian 
Alps,  who  dwells  on  the  next  floor,  and  goes  to  hear  him 
preach  in  a  cold  hall  of  the  old  town  of  a  Sunday  evening. 
He  enjoys  association  with  sundry  professors,  Oriental 
scholars,  and  scientists  of  noted  liberality  in  all  religious 
tenets.  For  the  rest,  he  frequents  the  libraries,  and 
attends  the  lectures   of  noted  poets,    philosophers,    and 


310  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

orators.  He  fulfils  Ghiberti's  summary:  "He  who  has 
learned  all  is  a  stranger  to  nothing;  without  fortune, 
without  friends,  he  is  a  citizen  of  all  towns ;  he  maj  dis* 
dain  the  vicissitudes  of  destiny." 

Should  you,  in  a  moment  of  frivolous  expansion,  impart 
to  the  mild  old  gentleman  some  fresh  items  of  the  gossip 
ever  eddying  about  an  afternoon  tea-party,  —  such  as,  that 
the  Spanish  count  squandered  the  half  of  his  bride's 
dowry  at  play  last  night,  or  the  American  matron  of  juve- 
nile charms  keeps  already  mature  daughters  in  a  French 
convent  school,  or  the  young  Roman  princess  is  known 
to  be  dying  of  tight-lacing,  —  he  ejaculates,  sotto  voce : 
"Dear!  dear!" 

Do  not  imagine  you  are  to  escape  a  wholesome  if  gentle 
reprimand.  In  course  of  time  you  will  receive  a  prim 
note  containing  a  promised  date,  searched  out  in  obscure 
archives,  a  Greek  inscription  translated,  the  rubbing  taken 
from  a  municipal  medal.     A  line  will  add :  — 

The  things  which  are  much  valued  in  life  are  empty  and 
rotten  and  trifling;  and  people  are  like  little  dogs  biting  one 
another,  and  little  children  quarrelling,  crying,  and  then 
straightway  laughing. 

Marcus  Aubglius. 

A  second  admonition  may  assume  this  form :  — 

"  I  find  this  Une  of  Sir  Matthew  Hale's  in  a  portfolio :  '  The 
intellectual  faculty  is  a  goodly  field,  capable  of  great  improve- 
ment; and  it  is  the  worst  husbandry  in  the  world  to  sow  it 
with  trifles  and  impertinences.' " 

Apart  from  the  incidents  of  routine,  and  basking  in 
southern  sunshine  in  sheltered  nooks  of  the  Lung'  Arno, 
the  Cascine,  the  garden  of  the  Fortezza,  and  on  the  ter- 
races below  the  Piazza  Michelangelo,  white  umbrella  open, 
blue  spectacles  on  nose,  and  book  in  hand,  what  does 
Florence  represent  to  the  Archaeologist  ?    He  dwells  in 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  311 

thought  and  study  in  the  past.  To  him  this  daughter  of 
Rome,  modified  from  the  military  camp  of  the  field  of 
flowers  near  the  river  into  a  town,  was  built  on  the  de- 
sign of  the  Eternal  City.  He  finds  vestiges  of  a  Colos- 
seum and  of  hot  baths  in  the  vicinity  of  Santa  Croce, 
while  the  market-place  was  the  capitol,  and  the  Temple  of 
Mars  the  rotunda,  now  converted  into  the  Baptistery. 
The  Archbishop's  palace  interests  him,  not  for  the  antiq- 
uity of  the  original  structure,  or  from  the  fact  of  Florence 
having  been  the  seat  of  a  bishop  in  the  third  century,  but 
because  of  the  uncovering  of  a  Roman  mosaic  pavement  on 
the  site  in  restoring  a  court.  He  resembles  the  French 
philanthropist  whose  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  remote  por- 
tions of  the  globe.  The  eye  of  the  Archaeologist,  accepting 
the  present  as  an  agreeable  and  passing  pageant,  searches 
ever  beneath  the  crust  of  the  years  for  records  of  vanished 
nations. 

He  emerges  from  the  shop-door  of  the  Antiquarian  on 
the  June  morning,  as  a  troop  of  Lancers  pass  along  the 
narrow  Street  of  the  Watermelon,  mounted,  wearing 
glittering  helmets,  and  carrying  slender  spears.  He 
glances  after  the  corps,  and  nods  his  head  as  he  ap- 
proaches the  window.  "The  god  Mars  is  abroad,"  is  his 
greeting.  "  Let  us  sacrifice  to  the  deity,  if  not  the  horse 
and  the  wolf,  at  least  vultures  and  magpies.  Surely  the 
Flower  City  may  have  a  little  dog-grass  left,  for  our  pur- 
pose, from  the  blood-stained  battlefields  of  the  Middle 
Ages!  These  young  Piedmontese  are  his  followers. 
Florence  has  always  been  under  his  protection.  Mars 
vigila  !  " 

The  little  old  man  holds  a  gift  in  his  hand  which  he 
has  just  discovered  in  the  shop  of  the  Antiquarian.  This 
is  a  slender  column  of  alabaster,  with  a  base  of  graduated 
steps,  and  surmounted  by  a  tiny  bronze  figure,  with  hel- 
met, shield,  and  lance. 


312  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

He  has  a  fashion  of  bestowing  presents  on  his  friends. 
These  usually  come  at  the  New  Year,  accompanied  by  a 
sprig  of  vervain,  as  the  symbol  of  good  wishes,  and  figs, 
dates,  and  honey  in  quaint  receptacles.  He  adheres  to 
the  earliest  period  of  Roman  simplicity  in  these  matters, 
and  seldom  degenerates  into  the  gold  ornaments  and  coins 
suppressed  by  Tiberius. 

"Pagan  that  you  are  at  heart,  have  you  forgotten 
this  is  the  24th  of  June,  and  the  Festa  of  San  Giovanni 
Battista  ?  " 

The  Archaeologist  chuckles  as  he  adjusts  the  fragile 
ornament  on  a  light  table  in  the  casement. 

"  Saint  John  and  the  god  Mars !  "  he  retorts.  "  Let  us 
all  seek  the  Baptistery,  and  admire  once  more  the  great 
silver  table.  Who  knows  when  it  will  be  for  the  last 
time  ?  " 

In  the  calendar  of  the  year  this  June  day  was  once  the 
happiest  festival  to  Florence.  Feasting  and  music  marked 
the  term  of  preparations  for  the  ceremony,  sumptuous  ap- 
parel was  inspected,  jewels  polished,  armor  and  standards 
made  ready  for  the  processions.  Nobles  of  other  parts  of 
Tuscany  were  invited  to  join  in  the  games  and  dances  of 
the  public  squares,  and  the  weeks  sped  away  right  merrily. 
On  the  day  preceding  the  festa,  at  an  early  hour,  all  the 
Guilds  of  the  Arts  and  the  shops  were  decked  with  silk 
and  cloth  of  gold  and  silver.  The  clergy  and  a  body  of 
monks  carried  the  relics  of  the  Baptist,  marvellously 
adorned,  and  were  accompanied  by  fifty  secular  compa- 
nies, triumphant  cars  filled  with  musicians,  angels  and 
saints,  in  allegorical  representations.  The  gonfaloniere 
walked  two  and  two,  the  eldest  first,  bearing  torches  in 
their  hands,  going  to  make  an  annual  oblation  to  the 
Baptist.  Women,  boys,  and  girls,  dressed  richly,  and 
adorned  with  gems,  went  and  came  until  the  setting  sun, 
—  the  waves  of  human  life,  color,  pennants,   and  music 


THE   STRANGER  COLONY.  313 

breaking  against  the  old  Temple  of  Mars  that  Arnolfo  del 
Cambio  dreamed  of  incrusting  with  new  marbles. 

On  the  morning  of  the  festa  the  Piazza  Signoria  was 
decorated  with  flowers,  triumphal  arches,  and  one  hun- 
dred trophies  signifying  the  diverse  places  subject  to  the 
city.  Armed  men  on  horseback,  and  youths  carrying 
lances  pervaded  the  square.  Around  the  Ringhiera  of 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio  the  standards  of  the  Guilds  of  the 
Arts  were  affixed  to  the  iron  rings  with  draperies  of  velvet, 
fur,  and  silk.  Maidens  danced  before  the  Signory.  How 
stately  the  burgher  luxury  I  All  the  standards  were  car- 
ried later  to  the  Baptistery  with  a  tribute  of  wax  candles. 

The  smaller  Piazza  of  St.  John  was  a  paradise  of 
flowers,  draperies,  and  hangings  adorned  with  lilies  where 
dancing  and  singing  were  prolonged  for  three  days.  The 
modern  pavilion  prepared  for  royalty  does  not  replace  those 
vast  tents  of  costly  fabrics  sown  with  gold  stars  and  the 
embroidered  standards  of  an  earlier  time. 

No  gay  crowd  haunts  the  piazza  this  morning,  where 
Peter  Martyr  once  preached.  Only  a  fringe  of  mendi- 
cants, venders  of  rosaries  and  crosses,  and  idlers  cluster 
about  the  portal  through  which  a  few  early  worshippers 
come  and  go.  How  incomparably  magnificent  the  scene 
in  the  warm  light  of  the  summer  morning !  Out-of-doors 
the  sun  plays  with  golden  reflections  on  every  projection 
of  Ghiberti's  work,  warms  to  rose  porphyry  columns, 
basks  on  the  marble  surface  of  the  temple.  Within  the 
"gates  of  paradise,"  the  vast  space  of  tessellated  pave- 
ment, the  dim  richness  of  gilded  dome,  with  the  intricate 
blending  of  mosaic  pattern  along  arch  and  gallery  un- 
rolled, like  some  gigantic  scroll,  and  the  curious  tombs 
are  faintly  revealed  or  capriciously  concealed  by  the  light 
of  innumerable  tapers. 

In  the  midst  the  great  silver  table  of  the  Baptist,  weigh- 
ing three  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds,  exhibited  here 


314  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

on  this  one  day  of  the  year,  sparkles  like  a  cone  of  rich 
design,  and  with  superb  effect  in  the  pervading  gloom. 
The  rays  of  candles  flicker  over  the  twelve  pictures  illus- 
trating the  life  of  the  Baptist  in  relief,  the  cornices  of 
enamel,  the  pilasters,  the  statuettes  in  the  niches  of  sibyls 
and  prophets.  In  the  midst  the  figure  of  the  saint,  one 
braccia  in  height,  and  weighing  fourteen  pounds,  designed 
by  Michelozzo  di  Bartolommeo,  shines  like  a  star. 

Two  soldiers,  wearing  helmets  and  holding  swords, 
guard  a  treasure,  the  Dossale,  made  to  rival  that  given  to 
the  Basilica  of  Constantinople  by  Constantine. 

The  Archaeologist  gazes  about  him  with  mild  enjoyment 
of  the  scene,  and  puts  a  sugar  pastille  in  his  mouth. 

"  The  human  mind  ever  recurs  to  the  original  starting- 
point  by  some  road,"  he  murmurs.  "Augustus  melted 
the  valuable  gifts  he  received  into  golden  idols  for  the 
temples.  When  this  place  was  an  open  rotunda,  Mars  must 
have  been  yonder  on  his  pedestal,  a  warrior  mounted  on 
his  horse,  and  not  in  the  chariot  drawn  by  the  steeds 
Famine  and  Terror,  as  he  is  often  depicted.  The  Caesar 
naturally  ordered  a  temple,  similar  to  that  of  Rome,  erected 
in  the  provinces,  and  Florence  was  a  Roman  colony. 
Even  Dante  called  these  the  people  of  Mars  (popolo  di 
Martey 

"  Your  statue  of  Mars,  removed  to  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  fell  in  the  floods  of  1333,  which  destroyed  the  Ponte 
Vecchio,  and  was  lost. " 

"  What  a  pity ! "  he  sighs. 

"  Constantine,  Theodosius,  and  other  Christian  emperors 
ordered  the  rotunda  converted  into  a  Christian  church. 
The  Lombard  queens,  like  Theolinda,  were  especially 
devoted  to  the  worship  of  the  Baptist." 

Can  it  be  possible  that  the  Archaeologist  shrugs  his 
shoulders  as  he  bids  us  good-morning,  and  walks  away  in 
another  direction  ? 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  815 

The  god  Mars  stood  on  the  table  in  the  window  and 
was  forgotten,  as  night  fell  with  the  Duomo  looming  in 
fiery  splendor  of  illumination  above  the  adjacent  roofs  and 
streets,  the  campanile  sparkling  and  flashing  beyond,  and 
the  opposite  Baptistery  wearing  a  diadem  of  twinkling 
lamps  on  its  venerable  head. 

An  unguarded  movement  in  the  casement  was  succeeded 
by  the  overturning  of  the  table  down  the  steps.  Mars 
rolled  on  the  floor,  with  the  alabaster  column  shattered  in 
many  fragments,  the  pedestal  dislodged,  and  the  figure 
bereft  of  shield  and  spear.  "What  a  pity!"  The 
earlier  exclamation  of  the  Archaeologist  was  echoed. 
"After  all,  Mars  should  make  way  for  Christianity." 

in.     A   BRANCH   OP   ALMOND  BLOSSOMS. 

The  Botanist  sends  a  gift  to  the  Street  of  the  Water- 
melon on  the  cold  February  morning,  consisting  of  a 
branch  of  almond  blossoms. 

The  gracious  messenger  of  the  hills  possesses  a  double 
significance :  it  is  a  herald  of  the  promise  of  spring,  and 
an  invitation  to  ascend  the  height  of  Bellosguardo  at  a 
stated  hour  of  the  afternoon,  and  admire  the  almond-tree 
in  bloom. 

Chilled  frames  expand  as  in  an  atmosphere  of  genial 
warmth,  and  frost-nipped  fingers,  cruelly  distorted  with 
chilblains,  hasten  to  place  the  branch  in  a  Chinese  jar 
filled  with  water. 

A  faint  glow,  like  the  lining  of  certain  sea-shells,  and  a 
scarcely  perceptible  perfume  breathing  of  the  freshly 
upturned  soil  and  hedges,  permeate  the  dark  interior  of 
the  chamber.  The  fragility  and  delicate  hues  of  all  early 
flowers  are  represented  by  the  slender  dark  branch  cov- 
ered with  unfolding  buds,  and  the  brave,  beautiful  instinct 
of  faith  in  the  germ  in  the  advent  of  spring.     Of  all  the 


316  THE  LILY  OF   THE  ARNO- 

manifold  phases  of  loveliness  assumed  by  the  Flower  City, 
the  most  attractive  is  garnishing  her  green  mantle  of 
the  environs  with  the  soft  bloom  of  fruit-trees,  —  first,  the 
almond,  as  January  yields  place  to  February,  then  the 
fluttering  snow-white  petals  of  the  pear,  succeeded  by 
the  rosy  flush  of  the  peach. 

The  branch  of  almond  glorifies  the  casement  and  the 
entire  street.  The  almond  is  Oriental  in  symbolism.  If 
its  name  signified,  in  the  biblical  parlance,  the  "  watcher, " 
the  "  hastener, "  at  the  gates  of  spring,  so  it  must  be  ac- 
cepted as  typical  of  the  aspirations  of  the  soul,  waiting, 
yearning,  longing  for  the  harvest-time  of  perfected  flower 
and  fruit.  The  shape  of  the  blossom  was  adopted  as  the 
pattern  of  the  "  cup  "  for  the  candles  in  the  golden  candle- 
stick of  the  Temple  at  Jerusalem.  The  Mosaic  record 
reads  thus: — 

'*  And  thou  shalt  make  a  candlestick  of  pure  gold ;  and  there 
shall  be  six  branches  going  out  of  the  sides  thereof:  three  cups 
made  like  almond  blossoms  in  one  branch,  a  knop,  and  a  flower ; 
and  three  cups  made  like  almond  blossoms,  a  knop,  and  a 
flower." 

The  candles  burned  from  sunset  to  sunrise  in  the  golden 
cups  of  the  almond  blossoms.  What  grandeur  of  sump- 
tuous religious  association  for  the  humble  spray  in  the 
porcelain  vase! 

Why  should  the  token  recall  that  a  glass  of  honey,  fra- 
grant, and  with  a  lingering  scent  of  waxy  cells  in  amber 
fluid,  still  stands  on  the  breakfast-table,  not  because  the 
queen  is  in  the  kitchen  partaking  of  the  delicacy  with 
bread,  but  as  bearing  a  label  of  the  Apiario  Ridolfi  ? 
Did  these  bees  ever  pay  a  humming  visit  to  the  Botanist, 
and  sip  the  sweet  nectar  of  his  plants  ?  The  Apiary  is 
situated  on  the  road  to  Galluzzo,  according  to  the  label, 
and  the  laborious  insects  may  readily  call  on  a  drowsy 


THE   STRANGER  COLONY.  317 

summer  day,  on  occasion,  as  we  are  about  to  do.  The 
bees,  pollen-laden  in  the  precious  hours,  are  on  business 
of  grave  import,  while  we  of  the  winter  noon  are  the  idle 
wasps.  Can  one  of  them  have  been  a  gigantic  grand- 
mother bee,  with  a  plump  body  of  metallic  purple  reflec- 
tions, and  gauzy  black  wings,  calculated  to  frighten  baby 
elves  hiding  in  the  pendent  clusters  of  wisteria  on  a  ter- 
race of  the  slope  the  previous  season  ? 

The  chief  charm  of  places  lies  in  their  association  with 
some  event  in  the  history  of  man. 

Choose  a  way  to  the  Arno  bank  when  the  sun  is  high, 
cross  the  Ponte  Carraia,  and  by  the  Borgo  San  Frediano, 
pass  out  of  the  Porta  San  Frediano  into  the  country. 
Fur-clad  folk  are  abroad,  if  the  resources  of  the  wardrobe 
boast  of  sealskin,  boa,  or  muff,  while  men  of  the  poorer 
classes,  loitering  about  the  gate,  wrap  old  cloaks  around 
themselves  shiveringly.  The  wind  is  piercing  and  most 
treacherous  to  human  lungs.  (Now  is  the  season  to  offer 
a  prayer  in  the  little  Church  of  the  Madonna  of  the 
Coughs,  Madonna  delle  Tosse,  near  the  portal  of  San  Gallo. ) 
The  encircling  hills  are  marble  white  with  snow ;  Fiesole 
has  a  bleak  aspect ;  long  belts  of  trees  in  the  valley  are 
leafless  and  brown  as  in  Northern  lands. 

The  Botanist  dwells  in  the  shadow  of  a  convent  wall, 
sheltered  alike  from  the  winds  and  the  turmoil  of  the  town. 
If  the  happiest  of  all  men  is  he  who  finds  the  work  for 
which  he  was  created,  and  can  do  that  for  the  rest  of  his 
life,  the  Botanist,  in  his  modest  nook,  is  at  peace  with  all 
the  world. 

Following  the  road  past  a  wayside  shrine  up  the  steep 
acclivity  of  Bellosguardo,  an  iron  gate,  painted  green, 
with  a  small  postern  door  adjacent  in  the  wall,  leads  to 
his  abode.  The  postern  door  is  opened  cautiously,  after  a 
preliminary  scrutiny  through  the  iron-work  of  the  gate, 
by  the  gardener's  wife.       She   is    a  tall,    spare,    hard- 


318  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

featured  woman,  wearing  a  black-felt  man's  hat  on  her 
head,  possibly  because  of  the  thinness  of  her  gray  hair. 
She  resembles  the  wooden  figure  of  Noah's  wife  in  a  toy 
Ark;  and  it  would  scarcely  occasion  surprise  if  she  ap- 
proached the  house-door,  slid  back  the  varnished  panel, 
and  bade  the  speckled  and  painted  animals  to  emerge 
stiffly  in  couples,  instead  of  ushering  a  visitor  into  the 
presence  of  the  tenant. 

A  long,  low  villa  of  cream-colored  stucco  faces  the  road 
and  the  city  below,  forming  the  lowest  building  of  a  group 
rising  on  terraces,  ledges  of  wall,  and  the  hillside  to 
the  pine-trees  of  the  summit.  The  villa  boasts  of  no  pre- 
tence of  stately  elegance,  like  so  many  of  its  neighbors. 
The  door  is  approached  by  a  double  flight  of  stone  steps. 
Above  the  arch  is  an  escutcheon  of  some  extinct  family, 
on  which  a  pine-tree  is  discernible  with  three  stars  below. 
On  one  side  is  a  stable  where  dwells  a  sedate  pony,  and 
through  an  adjoining  grated  casement  flutter  forth  the 
fowls  that  own  Noah's  wife  as  their  liege  queen.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  door  of  entrance  are  the  rooms  tenanted 
by  the  gardener's  family.  The  place  has  thus  a  rustic 
aspect,  half  farm  and  half  mansion,  which  in  nowise 
displeases  the  Botanist,  himself  most  unobtrusive  of  occu- 
pants, who  suffers  the  gardener  to  cultivate  his  grapes  and 
lemons  for  market,  and  rare  flowers  for  funerals,  wed- 
dings, and  baptism  fHes,  quite  unmolested,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  the  proprietor  of  the  property ;  the  goat  and  her 
kids  to  frolic  on  the  slope ;  and  the  hens  to  cluck  and  quit 
the  roost  at  all  manner  of  unseemly  hours,  such  as  only 
Italian  fowls  would  dream  of  doing,  sleeping  in  silence 
through  the  day,  oftentimes,  and  tumbling  out  at  sunset, 
apparently  none  the  worse  for  herding  in-doors  in  the 
dark.  Chanticleer,  most  superb  of  the  birds  of  Central 
Asia,  with  golden  tail  held  proudly  erect,  coral-red  comb, 
and  wings  shading  from  copper,  velvet-brown,  and  rus- 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  319 

set  to  emerald-green,  may  first  emerge,  with  the  aspect 
of  a  gentleman  about  to  seek  his  club  for  the  evening, 
and  is  followed  by  a  bevy  of  more  or  less  plebeian  wives, 
in  dun  or  drab  feathers  and  topknots,  with  the  odd  effect 
of  bustling  housewives  with  mob-caps  awry,  and  assumed 
in  a  hurry.  These  last,  despite  their  irregular  habits, 
yield  abundant  eggs  to  Noah's  wife,  which  the  worthy 
matron  sells  around  the  corner  of  the  wall,  hidden  be- 
neath her  apron,  mindful  of  spying  and  possibly  tale- 
bearing contadinL 

Venerable  olive-trees  and  gnarled  figs  grow  in  untram- 
melled luxuriance  on  the  knoll  and  the  hillside.  The 
little  almond-tree,  starred  with  sprays  of  pink  blossoms, 
rises  like  a  sentinel  on  the  grassy  path. 

The  Botanist,  occupying  the  upper  portions  of  the  villa, 
above  the  pony  and  the  fowls,  retreats  to  the  rear,  or 
southern  side  of  the  enclosure,  at  this  season  of  the  year, 
where  in  the  half-open  loggia  of  his  predilection,  rambling 
about  the  lemon-house  and  curiously  primitive  buildings,  — 
scarcely  more  than  a  shelter  from  frost,  with  tiled  roof,  — 
or  seated  below  the  chrome-tinted  expanse  of  wall  of  the 
boundary  terrace,  he  may  be  said  to  live  under  glass,  like 
the  most  sensitive  plants.  Only  in  the  balmy  afternoons 
of  May,  the  June  twilight,  or  the  late  summer  night  when 
bands  of  youth  from  the  crowded  town  feast  on  water- 
melon, with  laughter  and  song,  on  the  space  of  public 
greensward  near  the  Church  of  San  Vito  below,  does  he 
frequent  the  realm  of  the  almond-tree  and  the  olives  in  the 
front  portions  of  the  habitation. 

The  banquet  to  which  the  almond  branch  summoned  you 
is  spread,  presided  over  by  an  urbane  host,  and  served  by 
the  solemn  old  Joachim. 

The  Botanist  is  a  large,  loosely  limbed  man,  addicted 
to  eccentric  raiment  that  floats  about  him,  as  he  moves,  in 
ample  folds.     If  one  happens  to  meet  him  driving,  he  is 


320  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

invariably  surrounded  by  plants  in  pots,  and  if  on  foot, 
his  capacious  pockets  reveal  the  tops  of  furzy  fronds  and 
bundles  of  dried  flowers.  Occasionally  he  pauses  in  the 
Street  of  the  Watermelon,  in  a  mood  of  excitement,  hav- 
ing chanced  upon  some  rare  blossom  or  leaf  in  an  obscure 
corner  of  the  Botanical  Garden,'  which  he  wishes  to  paint 
before  it  fades.  He  is  as  careful  of  his  water-color 
sketches  as  was  the  Florentine  of  the  past  century,  Tom- 
maso  Chellini,  who  at  his  villa  at  Scandicci  thus  mirrored 
plant  life  with  the  aid  of  his  brush. 

Our  host's  hair  is  gray,  and  worn  long  so  that  it  min- 
gles with  an  abundant  beard ;  his  features  are  irregular 
and  accentuated.  The  color  burns  somewhat  too  vividly 
in  his  hollow  cheek,  and  the  brilliancy  is  feverish  of  his 
dark  eyes.  If  asked  where  his  country  lies,  he  would 
point  to  the  heavens,  like  Anaxagoras.  The  French  cari- 
caturist who  designed  the  kingly  countenance  of  Louis 
Philippe  in  a  pear  would  have  inevitably  portrayed  the 
Botanist  as  one  of  those  long  sinewy  roots  from  which 
mossy  filaments  float,  a  human  semblance  being  readily  im- 
parted by  the  carver's  skill.  As  for  Joachim,  —  servant, 
foster-brother,  assistant,  —  thin,  wrinkled,  and  brown,  he 
looks  as  if  he  were  laid  away  between  the  blotting-leaves 
of  press  or  herbarium  to  dry  at  times. 

Science  is  a  golden  key  that  opens  doors  wholly  inac- 
cessible to  wealth,  worldly  power,  beauty ;  therefore  to  be 
the  guest  of  the  Botanist  is  a  true  distinction.  The  branch 
of  almond  blossoms  must  have  served  as  the  open  sesame 
here. 

The  sunlit  and  sun-warmed  room  is  as  simple  in  ap- 
pointment as  the  manners  of  the  host  are  unaffected. 
The  floor  is  of  red  brick  tiles,  with  a  thick  covering  of 
native  drugget,  or  stoja,  spread  under  the  table.  The 
meal  is  composed  largely  of  elements  commended  by 
Xenophanes  on  similar  occasion :  — « 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  321 

"  Now  the  floor  is  cleanly  swept ;  the  hands  of  the  guests 
washed  ;  the  cups  shine  brightly  on  the  board.  Woven  wreaths 
and  fragrant  myrrh  are  carried  around  by  attendants.  Wine  is 
kept  in  reserve,  and  honey  in  jars,  smelling  of  flowers.  Frank- 
incense breathes  forth  its  perfumes  on  the  revellers,  and  cold 
water,  sweet  and  pure,  waits  at  their  side.  Loaves,  fresh  and 
golden,  stand  upon  the  table,  which  groans  with  cheese  and 
honey." 

In  the  centre  of  the  board  a  second  branch  of  almond 
blossoms  has  been  placed  in  a  Japanese  vase. 

"  There  will  be  the  fewer  green  almonds  for  the  chil- 
dren to  munch  this  season,"  the  Botanist  suggests  slyly,  * 
as  he  accepts  a  portion  from  the  dish  proffered  by  the 
silent  Joachim.  "  Butter  of  the  cow,  cheese  of  the  ewe, 
and  rieotta  of  the  goat,  eh,  Joachim  ?  We  know  how 
to  live  up  here.  Arcadian  shepherds  that  we  are !  How 
goes  the  Tuscan  jingle  ?  '  January  and  February  hold  to 
poultry ;  March  and  April  choose  kid ;  May  and  June  eat  ^^^ 
salad,  cabbage,  and  mushrooms;  July  and  August  roasted 
pigeons ;  September  and  October  hare  with  sauces ;  Novem- 
ber and  December  good  meats  always ! '  " 

The  host  does  not  perplex  unlearned  visitors  by  em-        -^"^y 
ploying   what    is    disrespectfully   termed   the    jargon   of 
science   on    his   favorite   "  phanerogams  "    and   "  crypto-  , , 

gams. "  He  has  often  travelled  to  the  islands  of  the 
Danube,  through  Bohemia,  Styria,  Transylvania,  and 
Carinthia,  in  pursuit  of  study,  accompanied  by  the  faith- 
ful and  intelligent  Joachim.  He  is  never  weary  of  mak- 
ing excursions  to  the  Falterona,  Vernia,  Camaldoli, 
Mont  Amiata,  and  Pietrasanta.  He  has  found  the  Qlo- 
hularia  humullinia  repens,  rare  in  Tuscany,  but  which 
flourishes  in  the  Pyrenees  of  France.  He  has  gathered 
valerian  on  the  Island  of  Gorgona  and  at  the  foot  of  Monte 
di  San  Giuliano,  and  creeping  vines  of  certain  value  in  the 
woods  of  the  Island  of  Elba.     At  one  time  he  haunts  the 

21 


322  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

cork  groves  of  the  Maremma,  and  again  he  rambles  like 
some  lonely  aquatic  bird  on  the  Lidi  of  Venice,  question- 
ing the  lagoons  as  to  their  treasures  of  tangled  marine 
weed  and  sandy  roots,  or  on  the  shores  of  Pesaro  and 
Kimini,  scrutinizing  the  harvest  of  the  Adriatic  waves. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  convent  wall,  in  the  loggia  which 
contains  chairs  and  a  table,  Joachim  places  coffee  and 
tiny  glasses,  with  a  flask  of  greenish-golden  Chartreuse. 
A  desk  in  the  corner  holding  writing  materials  and  a 
quantity  of  specimens  of  double  poppies,  the  globe  daisy, 
aconite,  bear's  ears,  myrtle  berry,  a  meadow  mushroom, 
rosemary.  Euphorbia  verrucosa^  and  heliotrope  indicate 
that  the  occupant  does  not  spend  all  his  time  here  in  idle 
re  very.  Nor  are  these,  partially  dissected,  the  sole  evi- 
dence of  industry  on  the  spot.  A  fine  collection  of  the 
petrifactions  of  Parma,  Vincenza,  and  Verona  is  arranged 
on  shelves  on  one  side  of  the  enclosure.  Specimens  of 
spider's  silk  are  outspread  on  black  cloth  in  a  glass 
case,  together  with  a  roll  of  manuscript  and  several 
volumes  of  reference  as  to  the  chemical  analysis  and  the 
utility  of  the  insect's  web. 

"If  you  sip  this,  the  spirit  of  the  place  will  take  posses- 
sion of  you,  the  very  atmosphere  pervade  all  your  senses, " 
said  the  Botanist,  pouring  a  few  drops  of  the  cordial  into 
the  fragile  receptacle.  "  I  dream  here  of  a  vanished  colony 
of  wise  and  tranquil  monks,  who  once  dwelt  in  the  monas- 
tery above.  A  villa  full  of  the  laughter  of  children,  now  ? 
Fes,  but  surely  the  building  was  conventual,  with  cloister 
and  garden.  They  must  have  been  Benedictines,  my 
ghostly  friends,  for  they  made  this  liqueur  out  of  pungent 
herbs,  mellowed  in  the  sunshine.  They  kept  bees,  and 
understood  the  insects.  The  gardener's  wife  has  a  few 
hives,  and  we  all  dwell  in  harmony,  each  respecting  the 
rights  of  the  other." 

Silence  ensues  as  the  eye  roams  over  the  scene.     The 


THE  STRANGER  COLONY.  323 

lower  parapet  of  the  garden  is  bordered  with  ornamented 
pots,  painted  yellow  and  coral-red,  which  are  filled  with 
marigolds  in  August.  Large  urns  of  majolica,  white- 
washed, border  the  paths,  receptacles  of  the  lemon-trees 
in  summer,  when  delicate  convolvulus,  pink  and  purple, 
bloom  about  their  roots.  Beyond  is  a  tunnel  of  laurel 
leading  to  arches  covered  with  trained  vines  and  a  foun- 
tain of  salmon-tinted  terra-cotta.  A  larch-tree  sways  in 
the  wind  that  does  not  reach  our  nook.  The  straw-plant, 
the  immortelle,  grows  in  profusion  in  the  adjacent  beds, 
reddish-purple,  yellow,  exquisite  amber,  and  pearly-white. 
The  dry  cough  of  the  Botanist  unhappily  interrupts 
revery. 

"My  convent  wall  always  reminds  me  of  the  Trans- 
figuration," he  muses.  "On  the  summit  of  the  height, 
wonder,  glory,  and  even  peace  are  attained,  while  in  the 
foreground,  the  city  yonder,  doubt,  turmoil,  and  clamor 
prevail. " 

The  little  almond-tree  braves  the  icy  wind  of  the  ter- 
race, and  flaunting  the  rosy  harbinger  of  spring,  welcomes 
us.  "  For  my  part,  I  prefer  the  mulberry  to  the  almond, " 
the  Botanist  affirms,  plucking  a  blossom,  and  slowly 
shredding  apart  the  petals.  "  The  mulberry  was  the  device 
of  the  upstart  Ludovico  Sforza,  you  remember,  as  emble- 
matic of  the  sudden  yielding  of  flower  and  fruit  together. " 

"You  care  for  this  almond-tree?  " 

"  Yes.  There  are  ninety-four  varieties  of  the  almond, 
I  believe.  However,  I  know  little  concerning  trees. 
Alas !  I  can  climb  no  higher  than  mosses,  lichens,  and 
fungi,   in  my  day." 

Is  this  humility  of  ignorance  real  or  feigned  ?  Does 
he  delight  in  Goethe's  theories  ?  Noah's  wife  approaches 
him  with  a  brimming  goblet  of  warm  goat's  milk.  Noah 
hovers  in  the  rear,  smiling  and  good-humored.  He  is  a 
stumpy  man  with  a  bronzed  face.     He  was  born  on  the 


324  '  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

property,  as  was  his  father  before  him,  and  he  has  known 
several  changes  of  rulers,  yet  his  cheerfulness  as  a 
fatalist  does  not  depart  from  him. 

Glance  back  at  the  bend  of  the  road.  The  Botanist  is 
visible  standing  beside  the  almond-tree,  sipping  the  goat's 
milk.  "The  day  of  days,  the  great  day  of  the  feast  of 
life,  is  that  in  which  the  inward  eye  opens  to  the  unity  of 
things." 

Who  may  doubt  that  the  Botanist  is  a  guest  at  the 
banquet  ? 


THE  GRASSHOPPER'S  FESTIVAL.  325 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

THE  grasshopper's   FESTIVAL. 

THE  dismal  blackbird  has  a  rival  in  the  window. 
Gentle  reader,  did  you  ever  happen  to  own  a 
cage,  neatly  made  of  wire  and  wood,  scarcely  two  inches 
in  height  ?  Surely  a  very  tiny  bird  must  dwell  in  such 
a  liliputian  mansion.  Are  you  familiar  with  the  song 
of  the  grasshopper  race  ?  Tri,  tri,  tri  !  For  how  many 
centuries  have  the  boys  of  Florence  heard  the  little 
stridulous  rasping  of  wing-cases  on  vibrating  membrane, 
producing  the  well-known  insect  chirp,  mingling  with 
their  dreams  on  the  eve  of  Ascension  Day! 

The  rival  of  the  blackbird  is  a  black  cricket,  or  grillo. 
In  outward  aspect  he  is  a  scarcely  less  doleful  prisoner 
than  the  wild  bird,  as  he  sits  on  a  morsel  of  salad-leaf  in 
the  second  story  of  his  house,  the  lettuce  couch  alone 
preventing  him  from  falling  through  into  the  cellar.  On 
Ascension  Day  in  Florence  the  cricket,  called  a  grillo,  is 
captured,  put  in  such  a  cage,  and  sold  in  the  streets  for 
a  few  pence.  Ascension  Day  signifies  here  the  festival  of 
the  grasshopper.  The  lower  classes,  especially  the  chil- 
dren, rise  at  dawn  to  gain  the  Cascine,  where  the  turf  is 
fresh,  and  the  long  avenues  are  clothed  with  the  delicate 
green  foliage  of  the  Italian  springtime.  The  crowd  seeks 
the  meadows  where  the  cricket  is  just  born.  The  fun  has 
not  ihQ  zest  of  past  years,  yet  capturing  and  possibly 
tormenting  the  hapless  insects  is  a  pastime  congenial  to 


326  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

the  boys  and  young  men.  When  caught,  pranks  are 
played  with  the  grillo.  Put  in  the  wee  cages  for  sale, 
games  of  betting  ensue  as  well,  as  to  which  insect  will 
jump  farthest  along  the  ground,  or  to  the  greatest  height 
in  the  air.  Carried  home  to  dark  houses  on  narrow 
streets,  if  the  cricket  chirps  gayly  as  a  prisoner,  the  visit 
will  bring  good  luck  to  the  domicile. 

How  did  the  usage  originate  ?  When  did  youth  begin 
to  search  for  the  grasshopper  family  in  the  dewy  meadows 
on  Ascension  Day  ?  The  custom  seems  to  have  been  lost 
in  the  obscurity  of  time.  Doubtless  pagan  children  en- 
joyed the  festival  under  another  name,  that  of  some  deity 
of  the  mythological  calendar.  Did  Fiesole,  the  Ancient 
Mother,  send  her  rosy  and  riotous  brood  of  urchins  down 
to  the  banks  of  the  Arno  and  the  Mugello  in  spring 
weather  of  cloud  and  sunshine,  to  catch  crickets,  incarcer- 
ate them  in  tiny  cages,  and  derive  symbolical  interpreta- 
tion of  good  or  evil  for  the  household  out  of  the  song  of 
the  captive  ?  The  Ancient  Mother,  as  Etruscan,  crowned 
with  her  proper  emblem,  the  crescent  moon,  and  wearing 
on  her  robes  the  golden  ornament,  the  Octopus,  may  not 
have  cherished  the  grasshopper  as  did  the  Greeks,  as  the 
stork  is  always  dear  to  Germany,  or  the  robin  to  England ; 
still  the  grillo  hunt  must  be  associated,  in  some  sort,  with 
such  anniversaries  as  the  firing  of  the  car  of  Ceres  in  the 
square  in  front  of  the  Duomo,  on  the  Saturday  before 
Easter,  if  kindled  with  the  fire  carried  from  the  church 
altar,  as  possessing  a  classical  signification  now  material- 
ized or  lost.  And  the  religious  associations  ?  In  a  land 
of  early  Christian  art  or  Renaissance  efPulgence,  where 
stately  pictures  of  the  Ascension  abound  in  dim,  rich 
museums,  and  Luca  della  Robbia  groups  recur  to  the  mind 
at  the  mention  of  the  day,  how  did  the  grasshopper  put 
in  a  claim  to  such  public  recognition,  unless  as  giving 
excuse  for  a  spring  holiday  ?     Fain  would  he  have  escaped 


THE  GRASSHOPPER'S  FESTIVAL.  327 

notoriety,   our  poor-  grillo  1    His   lament  to  this  day  is 
that  of  the  epigram  of  the  "  Anthology  " :  — 

«  Why,  ruthless  shepherd,  from  my  dewy  spray, 
In  my  lone  haunt,  why  tear  me  thus  away  ?  *' 

"Follow  a  fly  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,"  suggested 
an  American  bishop  of  a  humorous  disposition  to  the 
writer  of  these  pages,  one  August  day,  on  the  coast  of 
Rhode  Island. 

Was  it  for  the  sad  fate  of  hanging  in  his  cage  in  the 
Florence  Window,  on  the  dark  and  narrow  Street  of  the 
Watermelon,  that  the  cricket  emerged  from  the  egg,  was 
wrapped  in  the  pupa  of  a  second  sleep,  and  finally  skipped 
forth  as  a  perfect  insect  to  enjoy  the  day  in  the  grass  of 
the  Cascine  ?  The  droll  little  prisoner  was  bought  on  the 
market-place,  gazing  out  dolefully  between  the  bars  of  his 
fairy  mansion.  He  looked  hot  and  tired.  Oh,  how  he 
must  have  longed  for  the  vast  grasshopper  forests  of  the 
Cascine  meadows !  "  Shall  we  take  the  poor  thing  back 
to  the  shrubbery  ?  "  questions  the  zealous  member  of  the 
Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals. 

"  He  must  be  kept  over  one  night,  at  least,  to  sing  for 
good  luck,"  demurs  domestic  superstition.  "Besides,  on 
Ascension  Day  the  grillo  would  only  be  caught  again,  and 
possibly  undergo  the  tortures  of  the  Inquisition  at  the 
hands  of  a  new  owner." 

"  Horrible !  Perhaps  he  is  thirsty,  though !  "  Crumbs 
of  sugar  were  thrust  between  the  wires  of  the  cage,  as  a 
canary  might  have  been  tempted.  Then  a  shower  of 
waterdrops  were  made  to  trickle  down,  as  if  it  were  rain« 
ing,  with  the  combined  aid  of  a  sponge  and  a  tea-spoon, 
in  order  to  refresh  the  occupant.  From  time  to  time  a 
cherry  or  a  strawberry  was  offered  in  kindly  fashion,  but 
the  cricket's  appetite  proved  to  be  small.  The  blackbird 
failed  to  notice   the  rival,    after    a  preliminary,    sharp 


328  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

glance  of  inquiry,  as  if  wondering  if  the  grillo  might 
not  be  a  plump  morsel  to  eat. 

When  the  twilight  fell  and  shadows  filled  the  street,  the 
embrasure,  the  chamber  within,  the  cricket  moved  a 
feeler  in  the  air,  nodded  a  tiny  brown  head,  and  nibbled 
the  morsel  of  lettuce.  Then  the  insect  uttered  a  doubt- 
ful chirp,  as  if  expressing  thanks  for  all  food  received. 
The  blackbird  hopped  on  his  perch,  pecked  a  seed  supper 
vigorously  in  an  excess  of  astonishment,  gave  up  the 
enigma,  and  settled  into  a  ball  of  feathers  for  the  night. 

"  2V^,  tri^  tri  !  "  chirped  the  grillo,  and  the  crystal  clear 
note  penetrated  the  darkness  of  night,  receiving  response 
from  fellow-captives  in  adjacent  courts  and  gardens.  In 
the  morning  we  take  the  wee  cage  from  the  nail,  and 
swaying  it  on  one  finger  by  the  ring,  seek  the  Cascine. 
Oh,  the  tranquil  beauty  of  the  spot  on  a  cloudless  spring 
morning,   just  deepening  into  summer! 

On  one  side  the  river  flows  along  in  a  turbid  current ; 
on  the  other  the  country  extends  to  the  range  of  hills, 
with  the  near  slopes  of  Monte  Morello  clothed  in  mossy 
green,  the  towers,  castles,  and  villas  scattered  along  the 
base  shining  in  the  clear,  early  light.  Yonder  are  the 
race-course  where  fashion  occasionally  gathers,  the  charm- 
ing enclosure  of  the  lawn-tennis  ground,  and  the  circular 
space  shielded  by  the  canvas  that  did  not  serve  to  conceal 
the  automatic  movements,  in  rehearsal,  of  the  cavaliers 
who  rode  a  tournament  on  the  occasion  of  Wi^fete  of  the 
completed  Duomo. 

Beyond  are  the  thick  cool  hedges,  long  vistas  of  avenues 
of  lofty  and  venerable  trees  full  of  shadowy  mystery,  — 
beeches,  pine,  ilex,  dense  masses  of  evergreen,  the  light 
ripple  of  poplars  against  the  blue  sky.  Overhead  the 
birds  —  lark,  thrush,  or  blackbird  —  hold  a  carnival  of 
matutinal  melody,  incomparably  more  lovely  than  the 
metallic  clang  of  the  afternoon  military  band.     In  the 


THE  GRASSHOPPER'S  FESTIVAL.  329 

bird  concert,  without  audience,  high  notes  pierce  the  leafy 
dome  as  if  taking  flight  into  the  sunny  air  from  tiny 
throats,  and  are  sustained  by  trills  of  more  subdued  war- 
blings  below,  or  drowned  in  the  gushing  outburst  of  many 
rivals,  intoxicated  by  the  sweetness  of  their  own  song  and 
the  triumphant  joys  of  living. 

Always  suggestive  of  the  Austrian  and  Lorraine  rule  of 
the  Duchy  of  Tuscany,  the  Belvidere  and  buildings  of  the 
original  Cascine  stand  silent.  Maria  Theresa,  in  person 
blooming,  stately,  and  sagacious,  might  step  forth  from  a 
mimic  temple  with  a  white  dome  and  columns  to  com- 
mend her  son,  the  excellent  Leopold  L,  for  his  labors  to 
improve  the  condition  of  the  people  and  the  land,  as 
she  gave  advice  to  her  daughter,  Marie  Antoinette,  on 
the  throne  of  France,  yet  a  school-girl  in  the  maternal 
eyes. 

The  plane-trees  extend  to  the  termination  of  the  park 
on  the  right  hand,  distinguishable  at  a  distance  by  the 
curious  whitish  bark  and  the  deep  shadow  cast  on  the 
road  by  leaves  growing  umbrella-wise.  Brought  over 
the  Ionian  Sea  to  the  Island  of  Diomedes,  and  thence  to 
Sicily  and  Italy,  the  ancients  may  have  venerated  the 
plane-tree  in  certain  localities,  pouring  libations  of  wine 
about  the  roots;  but  the  modern  valetudinarian,  reputed 
to  dread  discovering  malaria  in  the  beds  of  roses  of  the 
garden,  fears  the  pollen  of  the  blossoms  of  the  early  season 
shed  abroad  on  every  breeze  in  the  long  avenues  by  the 
classical  stranger. 

Does  the  Florentine  of  a  middle  or  a  superior  class  ever 
fish  in  the  Arno  ?  Surely  not  with  the  zeal  of  the  Pari- 
sian, who  persistently  haunts  the  bridges  of  the  Seine  at  all 
seasons  of  the  year.  A  few  men  and  boys  may  lounge 
on  the  parapet  of  the  Lung'  Arno  with  a  rod,  or  a  listless 
crowd  watch  the  dipping  of  a  net  at  the  weir,  or  the 
contadino  haunt  sandy  reaches  of  shore  down  to  Pisa, 


330  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

nude,  and  swinging  the  meshes  of  his  reticella  over  the 
water  by  a  dexterous  movement  learned  of  his  ancestors, 
holding  the  cord  between  his  teeth;  but  where  is  the 
Pliny,  meditating  beside  lake  or  river,  previous  to  dining 
on  plump  thrushes,  wild  asparagus  cut  from  beneath  the 
vines,  with  fresh  eggs,  and  the  comic  actor  appearing 
after  the  dessert  ?  The  Arno,  flowing  past  the  Cascine, 
and  possibly  Florence,  lacks  this  element. 

The  cricket  in  the  cage  has  no  idea  of  the  good  fortune 
in  store  for  him.  We  have  followed  the  Via  Cerretani 
and  the  Via  Panzani  to  the  Piazza  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
crossed  the  space,  and  walked  the  length  of  the  Via  della 
Scala  to  the  Cascine  Gate.  We  stroll  through  the  English 
garden,  redolent  of  flowers,  without  pausing  at  the  little 
chdlet  to  take  coffee  or  an  ice  at  one  extremity,  or  the 
pond  of  the  other,  overhung  with  trembling  ferns,  haunt 
of  the  gold-fish  among  the  lilies  below.  The  central 
avenues  soon  lead  to  the  realm  of  meadows. 

The  place  is  deserted,  hushed,  beautiful,  in  the  early 
freshness  of  day  and  season.  Equestrians  are  rare.  An 
occasional  velocipedist  skims  past,  like  a  phantom  insect 
of  grotesque  proportions.  The  babies  are  not  yet  abroad 
in  poke  bonnets  and  quaint  cloaks,  babbling  all  modern 
tongues,  in  charge  of  nurses  and  governesses.  Do  foreign 
maidens  still  haunt  the  depths  of  the  thickets  in  search  of 
clematis  and  wild  flowers,  having  given  a  rendezvous  to 
their  gallant  partners  of  the  ball  of  last  night,  all  in  the 
springtime  ? 

In  the  tree-tops  overhead  the  birds  trill  their  hymn  of 
praise,  and  the  god  Priapus,  armed  with  his  willow  scythe, 
reigns  in  these  sylvan  solitudes,  undisturbed,  as  lord  of 
the  flowers. 

The  piazzale  gained,  we  placed  the  cage  on  the  ground 
beside  the  hedge  and  drew  up  the  wire  which  forms  the 
door  of  the  prison.     The  grillo  advanced  his  head  cau- 


THE  GRASSHOPPER'S  FESTIVAL.  331 

tiously,  and  then  hopped  off  into  the  grass  as  fast  as  his 
legs  would  carry  him. 

"  Tri^  tri,  tri !  "  chirped  all  the  little  cricket-people,  by 
way  of  welcome. 

Happy  crickets !    Ascension  Day  was  over. 


832  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ABNO. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ON  THE  ARNO. 

/^N  the  Arno!    Do  not  the  words   recall   a  familiar 
^^     scene  with  the  distinctness  of  an  etching  ? 

The  length  of  quay  curving  in  the  distance  to  the  cloud 
of  foliage  of  the  Cascine,  the  Piazza  Manin  midway,  with 
the  monument  of  the  Venetian  patriot  in  the  centre,  the 
weir  and  circular  abutment  of  parapet  opposite  the  Hotel 
de  la  Paix,  and  the  bronze  statue  of  Garibaldi  flanking  an 
orange-colored  building  beyond,  —  all  these  features  be- 
long to  one  of  the  world's  most  renowned  thoroughfares. 
Who  does  not  remember,  in  a  much-travelled  age,  the 
leisurely  holiday  crowd  of  the  Lung'  Arno,  ebbing  and 
flowing  mothers  and  daughters  in  their  best  attire,  the 
babies  straggling  behind,  all  prepared  to  gaze  at  the  pass- 
ing carriages  and  their  occupants,  the  ladies  in  fresh 
Paris  toilettes  ?  A  Florentine  throng  this,  worthy  of  a 
passing  contemplation,  renowned  for  epigram  and  repar- 
tee, keen-eyed,  mocking,  ready  to  detect  and  laugh  at  any 
absurdity  or  weakness,  could  one  but  hear  and  understand 
the  winged  sarcasm  as  it  passes  from  lip  to  lip.  It  is, 
also,  a  populace  not  too  trustworthy  on  such  occasions  as 
the  languidly  recurring  Carnival,  being  more  prone  to  hurl 
missiles  than  flowers.  No  doubt  there  is  an  Ar lotto 
Pievano,  with  a  ready  jest,  in  a  group  of  priests  taking  a 
walk  at  the  sunset  hour.  No  doubt  there  may  be  a  barber 
Burchiello  abroad  with  his  family  to-day,  ready  to  keep 
alive  a  little  gayety  in  a  careworn  and  depressed  world  by 


ON  THE  ARNO.  333 

his  own  trolling  songs.  The  old  men  are  abroad  to  enjoy 
the  day.  The  aged  Florentine  citizen  of  the  middle  class 
is  a  most  interesting  type,  a  certain  refinement  tempering 
the  shrewdness  and  intelligence  of  shrivelled  features. 
Behold  him  on  the  Arno,  serene,  amused,  and  respectable, 
as  retired  merchant,  goldsmith,  optician,  shoemaker.  He 
is  also  a  citizen  of  the  world,  the  old  Florentine,  and  as- 
tonished at  nothing  new,  having  seen  many  pageants. 
On  such  occasions  the  beggars,  wrapped  in  cloaks  as 
withered  as  themselves,  have  crept  out  to  warm  chilled 
blood  in  the  sun  on  the  benches  opposite  the  Carraia 
Bridge.  The  three  blind  match-venders,  granted  a  long 
life  of  misery,  stand  in  their  accustomed  places  before  the 
Corsini  Palace.  The  peasant  women  from  the  Abruzzi, 
in  their  picturesque  costume,  and  with  gold  ear-rings  de- 
pending beside  their  brown  cheeks,  form  a  spot  of  warm 
color  near  the  weir, — red,  green,  and  yellow, — with  their 
pile  of  blankets  exposed  for  sale,  wherewith  to  deck 
draughty  doorway  of  hotel  or  pension,  or  to  drape  the  bleak 
walls  of  an  apartment  corridor.  These  wily  sirens  knit 
as  they  watch  for  the  traveller,  to  extort  a  higher  price 
for  their  wares  than  need  be  paid  for  the  same  article  in 
the  carpet-shops.  The  flower- venders  circulate  beneath 
the  balconies  of  the  hotels,  with  coaxing  smiles,  equally 
sure  of  their  prey,  —  the  stranger  intoxicated  with  their 
burden  of  sweetness  and  color. 

Who  does  not  remember  the  night  on  the  Arno  ?  If 
masculine,  you  took  a  fresh  cigar,  and  strolled  forth 
after  the  dull  table  d^hSte,  instead  of  seeking  theatre  or 
opera.  The  Lung'  Arno  was  silent  and  deserted,  with 
the  lights  of  the  gas  lamps  reflected  in  the  river,  the 
stars  and  the  moon  shining  in  the  sky.  The  Arno 
glided  along  swiftly,  with  sparkling  crests  of  foam 
visible  occasionally,  —  a  stream  devoid  of  volume  or 
steadiness,  descending  from  the  mountain  height  of  the 


334  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Falterona,  traversing  the  Casentino  amid  vineyards  and 
olive-trees,  and  pressing  onward  freer  in  course,  if  you 
will,  because  the  Libyan  Hercules  once  removed  the  rock, 
at  Signa,  which  formed  a  marsh.  In  the  shadows  of  even- 
ing the  river  has  a  quiet  and  pensive  beauty  of  aspect 
Never  could  the  traveller  apply  to  the  famous  current 
Dante's  scornful  epithets,  as,  "rising  meanly  among  swine 
more  fit  for  acorns  than  human  food, "  reaching  the  "  snarl- 
ing curs  of  Arezzo,"  thence  flowing  to  the  "abode  of 
wolves  at  Florence,"  and  finally  descending  to  the  "foxes 
full  of  fraud  "  at  Pisa.  "  The  ill-starred  ditch  "  has  an 
appearance  of  innocence  and  tranquillity  beneath  the  stars. 
In  the  shades  of  midnight  memories  may  stir  abroad  of 
Buonconte  da  Montefeltro  swept  down  by  the  overflow  of 
the  Archiano,  after  the  battle  of  Campaldino,  of  the  ashes 
of  Savonarola  cast  to  the  tide  from  the  Ponte  Yecchio,  of 
the  key  of  the  Famine  Tower  dropped  into  the  wave  at 
Pisa  by  the  Archbishop  Ruggieri.  Possibly  a  guitar 
twanged  farther  up  the  street,  and  a  singer  rendered  some 
Neapolitan  ditty  in  a  heavy  bass  voice.  A  sullen  splash 
beneath  the  Ponte  Carraia  suggested  a  suicide.  The 
Duomo  bell  boomed  out  a  few  hurried  strokes  on  the  still 
night.  Was  it  a  summons  for  the  Misericordia  to  seek 
the  suicide  on  the  opposite  shore  ? 

If  feminine,  you  assuredly  strayed  as  far  as  the  Piazza 
del  Duomo  to  admire,  in  a  sentimental  mood,  the  marble 
statues  and  columns,  glorified  by  the  moon. 

This  is  one  of  the  world's  thoroughfares,  with  open 
spaces  visible,  of  sky,  mountain,  and  open  country  beyond 
the  suspension  bridge,  such  as  no  other  street,  flanked 
by  lofty  buildings,  churches,  and  squares,  can  boast.  Not 
less  curious  and  interesting  is  the  throng  of  sojourners 
to  be  met  on  this  quay.  A  tide  of  strangers  traverses  this 
pavement  each  season,  and  vanishes  again.  Every  stage 
of  peevish  invalidism,  following  the  advice  of  Mr.  Wortley 


ON  THE  ARNO.  335 

Montagu;  rosy  brides,  native  and  foreign;  mothers  and 
daughters,  chiefly  Anglo-Saxon,  and  with  an  abstracted 
expression  often,  as  of  grasping  at  shadows,  having  missed 
the  substance  in  some  fashion;  and  whole  phalanxes  of 
the  "glorified  spinster,"  skurrying  out  of  the  doorways 
of  pensions,  always  under  the  pressure  of  utmost  speed 
of  locomotion,  —  such  are  elements  of  the  winter  day  on 
the  Arno.  Eccentric  types  abound  at  all  seasons,  —  the 
old  gentleman  of  parchment  visage,  who  walks  for  his 
health,  with  mechanical  precision  of  gait ;  the  old  gentle- 
man, bewigged,  rouged,  attired  with  juvenile  gayety  of 
taste,  suggestive  of  a  bygone  generation  of  club -man  of 
Regent  Street  or  Cheltenham ;  the  old  lady,  whether  of  the 
faded  furbelow  species  of  the  keepsake  album,  or  fantastic 
and  flighty  and  from  the  provinces. 

In  addition,  the  great  of  the  earth  like  to  walk  on  the 
Arno,  incognito.  A  king,  travelling  in  Italy  for  the 
benefit  of  his  health,  or  to  change  secretly  his  religion, 
as  gossip  affirms,  occupies  yonder  hotel  balcony.  A  fallen 
emperor,  eager  to  test  all  the  fresh  discoveries  of  science, 
is  lodged  farther  on.  A  slender  lady  in  black,  accompa- 
nied by  a  female  companion,  may  prove  to  be  the  Empress 
of  Austria,  or  the  elderly  lady  in  a  plain  carriage  the 
Queen  of  England. 

De  Stendhal  said,  "The  brain  is  a  magic  lantern  at 
which  one  can  play  for  one's  own  amusement." 

Rain  fell  on  the  umbrella  as  the  Street  of  the  Water- 
melon was  left  to  seek  the  Arno  bank  in  a  time  of  flood. 
The  Lung'  Arno  gained,  the  rain  ceased,  and  the  umbrella 
was  closed.  Promenaders  were  abroad  to  gaze  at  the 
river,  already  swollen  to  a  tawny  current,  brimming  from 
bank  to  bank,  pouring  through  the  arches  of  the  bridges 
with  a  menacing  violence  of  volume,  and  boiling  in  a 
mimic  cataract  at  the  weir.  To-day  the  bridges  hold  firm, 
—  first,  the  Ponte  Carraia,  which  we  might  christen  the 


336  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

Arch  of  Light,  for  the  countless  spectacles  of  which  it  has 
been  the  scene;  then,  the  Ponte  Trinitlt,  the  Arch  of 
Symmetry,  Ammanati's  best  title  to  fame  in  elegance  and 
simplicity  of  design;  then  the  old  treasure  bridge,  most 
precious  historical  link  of  all,  tottering  under  the  weight 
of  shops  and  gallery ;  and  finally,  Ponte  alle  Grazie,  Arch 
of  Gratitude,  modern,  spacious,  and  without  especial 
character  since  despoiled  of  the  central  chapel  where  was 
once  the  miraculous  Madonna  della  Grazie,  dear  to  the 
contadini,  and  the  cells  where  the  nuns  dwelt. 

The  scene  was  sombre,  —  heavy  clouds  swept  low,  and 
the  olive  slopes  below  the  Villa  Niccolini  on  the  Bellos- 
guardo  height  were  ragged  and  black.  A  group  of  spec- 
tators stood  at  the  weir,  their  faces  overshadowed  by 
painful  reminiscences,  like  the  sky. 

"  See  what  human  skill  can  achieve,"  said  the  Engineer, 
complacently,  indicating  the  hydraulic  works  of  the  Arno. 

A  Hungarian  shook  his  head.  "  Fire  can  be  dominated, 
but  water  is  the  great  destroyer." 

An  Italian  added,  "  When  will  the  Po  and  the  Adige 
be  taught  to  wear  a  bridle  by  engineering  ?  " 

An  American  woman  added  in  a  low  tone,  "  You 
know  little  about  floods  in  Europe.  The  Mississippi 
swallowed  our  all,  five  years  ago." 

In  such  weather  the  scene  of  the  great  flood  recurs  to 
the  memory  with  a  peculiar  vividness  and  power.  Liter- 
ally translated,  the  paragraph  of  Villani  seems  discursive 
to  the  limit  of  incoherence,  yet  is  thrilling:  — 

"  In  the  year  of  Christ  1333,  in  the  Calends  of  November,  the 
city  of  Florence,  being  in  great  prosperity  and  in  a  happy  and 
good  condition,  better  than  she  had  been  since  the  year  1300, 
thanks  to  God,  as,  by  the  mouth  of  Christ,  says  his  Evangelist 
Vigilate,  for  you  know  not  the  hour  of  the  Judgment  of  God, 
which  was  sent  on  our  city ;  when  at  the  Ognissanti  [All  Souls] 
commenced  the  rain  for  Florence  and  all  the  surrounding  coun- 


ON  THE  ARNO.  337 

try,  and  on  the  Alps,  and  the  mountains ;  and  this  continued  for 
four  daj'S  and  four  nights,  the  rain  increasing  in  an  unusual 
manner,  so  that  the  cataracts  of  the  sky  appeared  to  have  been 
opened ;  and  with  this  rain  continued  frequent  and  frightful 
thunder  and  lightning,  and  the  lightning  fell  sufficiently  often. 
Therefore  all  people  lived  in  great  fear,  ringing  continually  the 
bells  of  the  city  that  the  water  might  not  rise ;  and  in  each 
house  basins  and  buckets  were  used,  and  great  cries  circulated 
to  God  for  mercy  on  those  in  peril,  the  inmates  of  the  houses 
fleeing  from  roof  to  roof,  making  bridges  of  the  buildings ;  and 
the  noise  and  the  tumult  were  so  loud  that  the  sound  of  the 
thunder  was  scarcely  audible." 

Owing  to  this  unusual  rain,  the  Arno  speedily  showed 
those  instincts  of  chafing  agitation  within  customary 
boundaries  so  characteristic  of  narrow  Southern  streams. 

The  increased  volume  of  water  first  descended  the  hills 
with  violence,  submerging  much  of  the  plain  of  the 
Casentino,  and  then  completely  covering  those  of  Arezzo, 
and  the  Upper  Valdarno.  Trees,  mills,  houses  built  on 
the  banks,  and  stores  of  grain  were  swept  away  by  the 
ruthless  destroyer,  human  beings  and  animals  perishing 
by  the  score.  Thus  the  menacing  yellow  wave,  advancing 
in  the  guise  of  a  most  terrible  foe  on  Florence,  acquired 
additional  force  from  the  tributary  stream  of  the  Sieve, 
and  all  the  plain  of  the  Mugello  was  speedily  flooded. 
At  the  hour  of  Vespers,  on  the  4th  of  November,  the 
wave  reached  the  town,  pouring  over  the  whole  district  of 
San  Salvi  and  of  Bisarno,  to  a  depth  above  the  fields  of 
six  braccia,  and  even  of  eight  and  ten  braccia,  then  swept 
on  with  ever-increasing  power,  penetrating  the  city  the 
more  readily  by  the  Porta  alia  Croce,  and  that  of  the 
Renaio,  for  the  dilapidated  state  of  certain  sluices  belong- 
ing to  mills.     Yillani  continues  thus :  — 

"  And  in  the  first  sleep  of  the  night,  the  communal  wall 
above  the  Corso  dei  Tintori  was  broken  in  as  far  as  the  front  of 


338  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

the  dormitory  of  the  Frati  Minori  [Franciscans]  for  the  space 
of  one  hundred  and  thirty  braccia,  by  which  breach  the  Arno 
flowed  the  more  easily  into  the  town,  and  shed  such  an  abun- 
dance of  water  that,  having  first  beaten  in  and  ruined  the  quar- 
ters of  the  Frate  Minori,  the  whole  city  from  there  to  the  usual 
channel  of  the  Arno  was  covered ;  generally  the  streets  were 
invaded  and  more  or  less  inundated,  but  most  in  the  quarter  of 
San  Piero  Scheraggio,  and  the  gate  of  San  Piero  and  the  gate 
of  the  Duomo,  in  such  a  manner  that  those  who  read  of  it  in 
future  times  will  comprehend  the  end,  the  information  taken 
being  sure  and  notable." 

That  terrible  and  resistless  yellow  wave  glided  into  the 
Cathedral  and  the  Baptistery,  the  water  rising  up  to  the 
story  above  the  altar,  higher  than  halfway  up  the  column 
of  porphyry  before  the  door  of  the  latter  temple.  In 
Santa  Reparata,  the  foe  climbed  even  to  the  arch  of  the 
ancient  vault  below  the  choir,  and  threw  down  the  column 
with  the  cross  of  Saint  Zenobius,  which  is  in  the  piazza. 
In  the  Palace  of  the  People  (Palazzo  Vecchio),  where  the 
priors  met,  the  steps  of  the  entrance  were  submerged,  al- 
though the  adjacent  Via  Vacchereccia  is  deemed  about  the 
highest  spot  in  Florence.  In  the  Palace  of  the  Comune 
(Bargello),  where  dwelt  the  podestd,  the  tide  rose  in  the 
court  six  braccia.  The  main  altar  of  the  Badia  of  Florence 
suffered  an  overflow,  as  well  as  that  of  the  Frate  Minori ; 
while  in  the  Church  of  Or  San  Michele,  and  the  Old  and 
New  Markets,  the  depth  exceeded  two  braccia. 
The  chronicler  of  disaster  pursues :  — 

"  And  it  rose  in  the  Oltrarno,  in  the  streets  along  the  river, 
to  a  great  height,  and  especially  in  San  Niccol6,  and  in  the 
Borgo  Pidiglioso,  and  in  the  Borgo  San  Friano,  and  the 
Camaldoli,  with  great  desolation  for  the  poor  and  humble  people 
who  inhabit  the  ground-floors.  In  the  piazza  it  reached  as  far 
as  the  streets  traversing  the  limit,  and  in  Via  Maggio  as  far  as 


ON  THE  ARNO.  339 

San  Felice.  And  on  this  same  Thursday,  at  the  hour  of  Ves- 
pers, the  force  and  mass  of  the  Arno  broke  the  water-gate  of 
Ognissanti,  and  a  large  portion  of  the  Comune  was  flooded, 
and  in  the  rear  of  the  Borgo  San  Friano  in  two  parts,  for  the 
space  of  more  than  five  hundred  braccia  ;  and  the  tower  of  the 
guard  which  was  on  the  top  of  the  wall  was  nearly  beaten  down. 
And  the  said  sluice  of  the  Ognissanti  being  demohshed,  the  Car- 
raia  Bridge  fell,  except  two  arches  on  the  side.  And,  unable  to 
bear  the  pressure,  the  Trinitii  Bridge  crumbled  in  a  similar  fash- 
ion, save  one  pile  and  one  arch  on  the  side  of  the  church  ;.and 
then  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  crowded,  or  jammed,  by  the  wreckage 
of  the  Arno  with  trees  and  logs,  as  well  as  the  strength  of  the 
Arno,  which  flowed  above  the  arches,  and  the  houses  and  shops 
which  were  on  it,  and  by  the  weight  of  the  water,  was  crushed 
and  ruined  wholly,  so  that  there  remained  standing  only  two  piles 
in  the  middle.  And  at  the  Rubaconte  (Ponte  alle  Grazie),  the 
Arno  overleaped  the  arch  at  the  side,  and  broke  the  parapet  in 
part,  and  penetrated  other  places  and  broke,  and  brought  to  the 
ground  the  palace  of  the  Castle  Altafronte,  and  a  great  portion 
of  the  houses  of  the  Comune  Sopr'  Arno  from  the  said  castle  to 
the  Ponte  Vecchio.  And  there  fell  into  the  Arno  the  statue  of 
Mars,  which  was  on  the  column  at  the  foot  of  the  Ponte  Vec- 
chio on  the  other  side.  And  note  this  of  Mars,  that  the  an- 
cients said  and  left  in  writing :  when  the  statue  of  Mars  falls 
and  perhaps  moves,  the  city  of  Florence  will  be  in  great  peril 
and  sufl'er  alteration.  And  Mars  fell,  and  many  houses  from 
the  Ponte  Vecchio  to  the  Carraia  ;  and  finally  the  mill-dam  along 
the  Arno  was  swept  away,  and  the  Borgo  San  Jacopo,  and  all 
the  streets  Lung'  Arno,  here  and  there,  were  ruined.  He  who 
gazed  upon  the  demolition  saw  almost  a  chaos ;  and  similar 
damage  occurred  to  many  houses  badly  built  in  other  parts  of 
the  city.  And  if  during  the  night  the  communal  wall  of  the 
Prato  of  Ognissanti  had  not  given  away  for  the  distance  of 
four  hundred  and  fifty  braccia,  by  which  breach  the  water  col- 
lected in  such  abundance  that  all  the  city  was  full  and  ever-in- 
creasing, and  assuredly  the  city  would  have  been  in  great  peril 
had  the  quantity  doubled ;   but  the  breaking  of  the  said  wall 


340  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

allowed  the  water  in  the  cit}^  to  return  with  violence  to  the  Arno, 
and  the  flood  lessened,  and  in  the  city  beyond  the  channel  of 
ihe  Arno  on  Friday,  at  the  hour  of  Vespers,  leaving  the  city, 
and  all  the  streets,  and  the  shops,  and  cellars, —  of  which  there 
are  man}'  in  Florence,  —  full  of  pestilential  mud,  such  as  could  not 
be  removed  in  six  months ;  and  nearly  all  the  wells  of  Florence 
were  spoiled,  and  it  was  necessary  to  rebuild  them  by  the  bed 
of  the  Arno.  And  succeeding  the  same  deluge  near  the  city  to- 
ward the  west,  all  the  plain  of  Legnaia  and  Ognano  and  of 
Settimo,  of  Ormannoro,  Campi,  Brozzi,  Sanmoro,  Peretola, 
and  Miccioli  as  far  as  Signa,  and  the  country  of  Prato  was 
covered  by  the  Arno  in  abundant  quantity,  injuring  fields  and 
vineyards,  bearing  away  masonry,  and  the  houses,  and  mills, 
and  many  people,  and  nearly  all  the  cattle ;  and  then  passed 
Montelupo  and  Capraia,  and  by  the  addition  of  more  rivers, 
which  below  Florence  flowed  into  the  Arno,  which,  every  one, 
rose  angrily,  ruining  all  their  bridges.  In  a  similar  manner, 
and  to  a  larger  extent,  the  Arno  covered  and  destroyed  the 
Lower  Valdarno,  and  Pontormo  and  Empoli  and  Santa  Croce 
and  Castelfranco  ;  and  a  great  part  of  the  walls  of  this  territory 
were  demolished,  and  all  the  plain  of  San  Miniato,  and  of  Fucec- 
chio,  and  Montetopoli,  and  of  Marti  al  Pontadera.  And  arrived 
at  Pisa,  all  was  immersed,  if  not  for  the  ditch  Arnonico,  and  of 
the  Borgo  alle  Capanne  in  the  marsh  ;  which  marsh  made  a  wide 
and  deep  channel  to  the  sea,  which  was  not  previously  there, 
and  on  the  other  side  of  Pisa  invaded  the  Osoli,  and  mingled 
with  the  river  Serchio ;  but  with  all  this,  Pisa  was  flooded,  and 
much  damage  done,  and  all  the  plain  of  the  Val  di  Serchio  at 
Pisa  was  spoiled,  but  then  much  land  was  left  unharmed  to  the 
great  utility  of  the  country.  This  deluge  did  infinite  injury  to 
the  city  and  environs  of  Florence ;  to  three  hundred  persons, 
great  and  small,  which  afterward  was  thought  to  exceed  three 
thousand;  and  of  cattle  a  great  quantity;  of  ruined  bridges, 
houses,  and  mills,  in  vast  numbers,  so  that  there  remained  not 
a  bridge  over  any  river  or  ditch  that  was  not  broken ;  in  loss 
of  merchandise,  cloths  of  wool  of  the  country,  and  of  harness, 
and  of  masonry,  and  not  less  of  full  casks,  nearly  all  destroyed  ; 


ON  THE  ARNO.  341 

and  also  the  seeds  of  grain,  and  flour  for  the  houses,  with  the 
loss  of  all  sown,  and  the  damage  to  lands  and  fields ;  which 
if  the  masses  of  water  covered  and  spoiled,  the  hills,  and  the 
stones,  descending,  tore  up,  and  carried  away  the  good  earth." 

In  Florence  the  flood  occasioned  great  fear  and  admira- 
tion, none  doubting  that  it  was  the  judgment  of  God  for 
sins  committed ;  therefore  most  citizens  turned  to  prayer 
and  meditation  and  penance.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
philosophers  and  astrologers  argued  that  the  disaster  was 
merely  the  course  of  Nature.  The  superstitious  drew 
unfavorable  auguries  from  a  recent  eclipse  of  the  sun. 
The  momentous  event  elicited  a  letter  of  condolence  from 
King  Robert  of  Sicily  to  the  afflicted  city,  which  moved 
the  profound  gratitude  of  the  commonwealth  apparently. 
The  missive,  too  lengthy  for  quotation,  is  surely  one  of  the 
most  piously  edifying  documents  ever  indited  by  royalty 
for  the  benefit  of  a  flood-swept  town.  King  Robert  clearly 
deduces  that  when  we  suffer  tribulation  from  any  cause, 
the  trials  are  our  correction.  He  quotes  Solomon,  Daniel, 
and  Saint  Augustine  in  support  of  his  homily.  The 
monarch  wrote  under  his  own  private  seal  at  Naples. 

The  rain  began  to  beat  on  the  umbrella  once  more; 
the  ladies  entered  their  carriages  and  drove  away;  the 
children  were  huddled  under  shelter.  The  group  of  spec- 
tators at  the  weir  had  departed.  The  yellow  river  rolled 
on,   and  the  clouds  swept  low  across  the  zenith. 

On  the  Arno !  What  a  throng  of  association  the  very 
words  evoke,  — from  the  English  statesman  who  wished  his 
remains  brought  to  the  Flower  City  for  stately  sepulchre, 
wherever  he  might  die,  to  the  latest  amateur  who  wields 
brush  or  pencil  leaning  on  the  parapet,  and  the  artist 
whose  needle  etches  a  design  of  a  cluster  of  poplars,  a 
campanile,  a  badia,  and  a  bend  of  shore  in  the  direction 
of  melancholy  Pisa,  framed  in  pine-trees. 


342  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  WINDOW  CLOSED. 

SUMMER  and  early  autumn  once  more  return,  and 
Italy  has  celebrated  her  fetes  of  the  Assumption  of 
August  and  La  Donna  of  September. 

Life  flows  on  in  an  uneventful  current  in  the  narrow 
street  between  the  Cathedral  and  the  monastery  of  St. 
Mark. 

Time  was  when  the  citizens  came  forth  to  sit  on  the 
stone  benches,  and  gossip  in  the  twilight.  The  human 
tongue  was  the  chief  medium  of  communicating  the  latest 
intelligence,  good  or  evil.  Telegraph  and  telephone  did 
not  exist.  Now  the  carhonajo,  —  having  stored  the  latest 
freight  of  timber  from  the  hills  around  Perugia,  and  the 
bags  of  charcoal  from  the  heights  beyond  Vallombrosa,  for 
the  winter,  —  the  antiquarian,  and  the  bookseller  each 
read  a  favorite  daily  journal.  Thirsting  for  "news  as 
fresh  as  the  coin  of  the  mint,"  the  sheet  in  the  hand  of 
the  carhonajo  is  the  "  Fieramosca, "  that  of  the  bookseller 
the  "  Nazione, "  and  the  preference  of  the  dealer  of  hric-d- 
brae  the  "Vedetta." 

The  cats  pause  on  their  respective  thresholds,  glancing 
up  and  down  the  thoroughfare.  The  eccentric  English- 
woman, wearing  her  flowered  shawl  and  big  bonnet,  ram- 
bles along,  pausing  to  feed  each  pet  animal  with  a  dainty 
morsel  taken  from  her  capacious  pocket. 

The  convent  of  San  Marco,  the  campanile,  the  wide 
Piazza  Signoria,  bask  in  the  hot  sunshine.     The  graceful 


THE  WINDOW  CLOSED.  343 

tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  still  indicates  the  spot  of 
Savonarola's  sufferings.  In  the  cool  shadow  of  the 
Church  of  the  Lily,  Michelangelo's  group  of  the  dead 
Christ  held  by  his  followers  rises  in  the  dim  obscurity  at 
the  back  of  the  choir  and  beneath  the  vast  space  of  dome. 

The  old  Bargello,  silent  and  deserted  at  this  season, 
treasures  the  Luca  della  Robbia  groups  singing  their 
perpetual  hymn  of  praise. 

Girolamo  Benivieni,  poet  and  Florentine  gentleman, 
gazes  forth  from  the  picture-frame  of  the  Torrigiani 
Gallery,  musing  on  the  theme  of  his  own  canticles  and 
lauds.  The  Christ  Child  stands  above  the  altar  of  the 
chapel  in  the  Church  of  San  Lorenzo,  where  the  memory 
of  the  Medici  may  linger  in  pomp  of  funeral  rite,  but 
whose  dust  "  nevermore  may  clog  the  feet  of  men. " 

The  works  of  the  painters  are  unchanged,  — the  head 
of  Savonarola  in  the  corridor  beyond  the  cloister  garden  of 
his  monastery.  Saint  Augustine  on  the  wall  of  the  Church 
of  Ognissanti,  the  Nativity  in  the  Academy  of  the  Fine 
Arts.  Cronaca  pervades  his  native  city  in  a  swift,  in- 
tangible fashion.  Saint  John  the  Evangelist,  in  heavy 
bronze  draperies  of  Baccio  da  Montelupo,  guards  the  sanc- 
tuary of  Or  San  Michele,  in  company  with  the  other  saints 
in  their  niches. 

The  bronze  Boar  spouts  a  jet  of  fresh  water  from  his 
dripping  jaws  for  the  thirsty  children,  beside  the  arches 
of  the  Mercato  Nuovo. 

Justice  on  her  column  poises  her  scales,  judging  the 
town.  We  might  search  in  vain  for  the  loggia  beside 
the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  Soprarno,  where  Tadda  and 
his  son  worked  for  eleven  years,  patiently  hewing  the  por- 
phyry in  the  five  or  six  separate  pieces,  to  form  the  statue 
which  was  destined  to  commemorate  Duke  Cosimo's  vic- 
tories over  his  enemies,  called  "  the  monument  of  the  two 
injustices. " 


344  THE  LILY  OF  THE  ARNO. 

The  season  is  the  Feast  of  the  Watermelon.  The  ruddy- 
hearted  fruit  is  piled  up  on  the  steps  of  the  obelisk,  and 
vended  on  street  corners  on  little  stands  and  carts.  Now 
is  the  moment  when  the  worldly-wise,  if  selfish,  precept 
of  the  proverb  is  inculcated  in  every  urchin :  "  In  the  time 
of  melons  lend  not  the  knife." 

The  bells  of  the  church  towers  hold  full  sway  over  the 
town,  marking  the  passing  hours.  The  gray  tower  of 
Galileo  rises  above  the  olives  on  one  side  of  the  river; 
and  Fiesole,  the  Ancient  Mother,  watches  on  her  opposite 
crag. 

Twilight  falls  on  the  Flower  City,  and  the  lamps  of 
the  street  shrine  begin  to  tremble  in  the  darkness,  pro- 
tected by  the  projecting  arch.  The  mosaic  Madonna  of 
Andrea  Tafi  has  once  more  hidden  her  face  within  the 
curtains  of  her  window-sash.  A  gust  of  wind  might 
readily  extinguish  the  Five  Lamps,  yet  the  vital  spark  of 
flame  burns  on,  ever  recalling  the  reformer  and  his 
followers. 

Even  now,  in  the  full  tide  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the 
wayfarer  may  pause  in  the  obscurity  of  the  street  and 
question  his  own  soul:  — 

Watchman,  what  of  the  night  ? 

And  the  Florence  Window  ?  What  is  the  casement 
other  than  the  mind  open  to  receive  the  light  of  a  circum- 
scribed limit  of  locality,  and  closed,  save  memory  ? 


INDEX. 


INDEX. 


Abruzzi,   peasant  women  of  the, 

333. 
Academy  of  the  Fine  Arts  (Accade- 

mia  delle   Belle    Arti),  243-244, 

267,  343. 
Accorso,  Taddeo,  145. 
Adrian!,  267. 

Albert!,  Leo  Battista,  271. 
Alberti,  Niccolb  di  Jacopo,  295. 
Albertinelli,  Mariotto,  9, 26,  228-233. 
Alderotti,  145. 
Alexander  VI.,  Pope  (Borgia),  155, 

159. 
Alexis,  Saint,  263. 
All  Saints  (Ognissanti),  festival  of, 

235. 
All  Souls,  festival  of,  123-125,  235. 
Almond  blossoms,  315-316. 
American  Church,  88. 
Ammanati,  Bartolommeo,  336. 
Ammanati,  Jacques,  144. 
Ammiato,  267. 

Andrea  del  Castagno,  194-195. 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  26,  176,  196,  250. 
Andrea  di  Piero  Ferrucci,  272. 
Annunziata,  Italian  order,  16. 
Antonino,  Saint,  archbishop  of  Flor 

ence,  95-96,  136-137,  139. 
Apiario,  Ridolfo,  316. 
Archaeologist,  the,  307-315. 
Aretino,  Leonardo,  144. 
Arno,  the  river,  97, 329-330,  332-34L 
Arnolfo  di  Cambio,  128,  172-173. 
Arte  delle  Lana,  45. 
Arte  delle  Seta,  arms  of  the,  21. 


Artist,  an  American,  68-82. 
Astronomer,  American,  in  Florence, 

297-307. 
Aurispa,  Jean,  144. 


Baocio,  Bandinelli,  246,  267. 

Baccio  d'Agnolo,  174,  256. 

Baccio  da  Montelupo,  168,  170,  232- 
233,  248-251,  253. 

Baglioni,  the  noble  Italian  family, 
26. 

Balducci,  Guglielmo,  93. 

Bandinelli,  180,  216. 

Baptistery.  (See  Churches:  Bat- 
tisterio.) 

Barbara  von  Cilly,  21. 

Barberia,  the,  168-169. 

Barga  (Barghe),  61-62. 

Bargello,  the,  161,  212-225,  291,  293, 
338,  343. 

Barnabas,  Saint,  79-80. 

Baronci,  the,  noble  Florentine  fam- 
ily, 8. 

Bastiniani,  modern  Florentine  sculp- 
tor, 140. 

Beccadelli,  Antonio,  144. 

Beccafumi,  63. 

Bellosguardo,  45,  105,  317. 

Bells,  Florentine,  32,  33,  34,  45,  48, 
89,  91-92. 

Bells  of  the  adjacent  country,  99, 
108,  112,  126.  - 

Benedetto  da  Majano,  23,  180,  22^ 
255. 


348 


INDEX. 


Benevolence,  quest  of,  241-243. 
Benivieni,  Girolamo,  168,  201,  203- 

205,  206,  209,  231,  245,  343. 
Benozzo,  Gozzoli,  27. 
Bentivoglio,  the  duchess,  155. 
Benvenuti,  203. 
Berlinzone,  25. 
Bernardino,  Saint,  48. 
Bertholdi,  203. 
Bianchi,  Giovanni,  63. 
Bicci,  Lorenzo  di,  221. 
Bigallo,  tlie,  175. 
Blackbird,  gift  of  a,  82,  85-86. 
Boar,  the  bronze  (II  Porcellino),  277- 

284,  343. 
Boboli  Gardens,  267,  271. 
Boccaccio,  8,  29,  100,  206. 
Bologna,  Savonarola  at,  133. 
Bona  of  Savoy,  281. 
"  Bonfire  of  the  Vanities,"  208-210, 

230,  240,  247. 
Borgia,  Cesare,  166, 197. 
Borgo  degli  Apostoli,  262. 
Borgo,  San  Lorenzo,  202. 
Borgo,  San  Sepulcro,  184. 
Borgognissanti,  236. 
Botanical  Garden,  267. 
Botanist,  the,  315,  318-324. 
Botticelli,  Sandro,  14,  168,  170,  186, 

237-240,  244,  246,  247. 
Bracciolini,  Poggio,  144. 
Brafocolini,  foundryman,  45. 
Brancacci  Chapel,  90. 
Bridges :  Ponte    alia    Carraja,    333, 
334,  335-336. 
Ponte  alle  Grazie,  51,  126,  199, 

336. 
Ponte  Santa  Trinita,  267,  281, 

292,  308,  336. 
Ponte  Sospeso,  { the  suspension 

bridge ),  97,  99. 
Ponte  Vecchio,  192,  234,  336. 
Brienne,  Walter  de,  214,  217,  224, 

292. 
Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  235. 
Brunelleschi,  Filippo,  173,  174,  203, 

217,  220. 
Bruno,  29. 
Bruno,  Giordano,  145,  146. 


Buffalmacco,  24,  29-30,  172. 
Buffalo  race,  mediaeval,  50-52. 
Buonarotti,  Ludovico,  184. 
Buonarotti.     (See  Michelangelo.) 
Buontalenti,  Bernardo,  29,  176,  262, 

270. 
Buonvicini,  Era  Domenico,  159,  162. 


Cacciaguida,  19. 
Calcio,  Italian  game,  47. 
Calendrino,  24-25,  145. 
Calimala,  device  of  the,  20. 
Cambio,  Arnolfo  del,  176,  291,  313. 
Campanile,  the,  7,  33,  34-37,  41,  44, 

45-46,  175 ;  reproduced  in  ivory, 

72. 
Campanile  of  Santa  Croce,  53. 
Campanile  of  St   Mark's,  91  ;    its 

bells,  91-92. 
Caparra,  Niccolo,  262. 
Capponi,  Gino,  {Marchess)  288-291, 

294-295. 
Capponi,  Girolamo,  289. 
Capponi,  Neri,  289. 
Capponi,  Piero,  32,  158,  289. 
Carnesecchi,  Piero,  268. 
Carrara    Mountains,    98,    104,    188, 

236. 
Cascine,  the,  97,  98,  99,  328,  329,  330, 

332. 
Casentino,  the,  45,  97-98,  99,  108, 

116,  256,  285,  334,  337. 
Caterina  de'  Ricci,  166. 
Catherine,  Saint,  120. 
Cats,  Florentine,  9-11,  66-67,  74-75, 

216,  223,  237,  241-242,   259-260, 

277,  342. 
Cauldron,  Society  of  the,  25. 
Cecco,  an  Italian  boy,  82-91. 
Cellini,  Benvenuto,  23,  222,  224,  266, 

267. 
Cenni,  Cosimo,  45. 
Cennini,  Bernardo,  146. 
Certosa,  the,  26. 

Chapel  of  the  Princes,  64-65,  67. 
Charles  of  Anjou,  20. 
Charles  V.  the  Emperor,  34,  267. 
Chianti  wine,  16. 


INDEX. 


349 


Christ-child,  statue,    203-204,  208- 

210. 
Churches:  Battisterio  (Baptistery), 
18,  26,  311,  313-314. 
Duomo  (Cathedral  of  Santa  Ma- 
ria del  Fiore),  7,  45-46, 86.  91, 
99, 160, 165,  172,  175,  179-183, 
205,  207,  245,  246,  248,  255, 
256,  272,  338,  342,  343. 
La  Badia,  109. 
Ognissanti,  33,  237-240. 
Or  San  Michele,  7,  59,  205,  248, 

251,  338,  343. 
San  Ambrogio,  256. 
San  Felice,  77. 
San  Giovanni,  215. 
San  Lorenzo,  11,  33,  57,  58,  60, 
61,  65-66,  67-68, 126,  202-203, 
343. 
San  Marco,  33,  207. 
San  Miniato,  33,  97,  98,  255. 
San  Niccolo,  42-43,  163-164. 
Santa  Croce,  33,  173,  205,  215, 

288,  289,  291. 
Santa  Lucia,  33. 
Santa  Maria  del  Carmine,  33, 
77,  86,  87-88,  89,  205, 228,  239. 
Santa  Maria  della  Tosse,  317. 
Santa    Maria    Novella,   33,   76, 
177,   184-185,  205,   206,  215, 
219-220,  236,  246. 
Santa  Maria  Nuova,  233. 
Santa  Maria  Soprarno,  343. 
Santa  Reparata,  173,  338. 
Santa  Trinita,  262. 
Santi  Apostoli,  76. 
Santissima  Annunziata,  61. 
Santo  Spirito,  33,  70,  76,  77-80, 
215,  255. 
Cimabue,  14,  24,  194,  196,  228. 
Circolo,  Artistico  (artists'  club),  24. 
Clement  VII.  (Medici),  265,  270, 273. 
Club  of  the  Trowel,  174-175. 
Colonna,  Ascanio,  271. 
Colonna,  Vittoria,  188,  190,  205. 
Companies,  mediaeval,  religious,  and 

charitable,  292-293. 
Convent  of  San  Marco,  164,  226,  342. 
Cosini,  Silvio,  189. 


Credi,  Lorenzo  di,  i68, 170,  201,  232, 
244-247,  249. 

Cricket,  gift  of  a,  326-328;  his  re- 
lease, 330  331. 

Cronaca,  II  (Simone  del  PoUajuolo), 
168-170,  186,  246,  254-258. 

Cypress-trees,  121-122. 

Damien,  Saint,  19. 

Daniello,  Flosch,  63. 

Dante,  47,  48,  49,  06,  190,  194,  282. 

David,  Michelangelo's,  14,  126. 

Decameron,  the,  243. 

Delia  Robbia,  the  family,  168, 170, 

219. 
Della  Robbia,  Ambrogio,  229. 
Della  Robbia,  Andrea,  222-223. 
Delia  Robbia,  Girolamo,  223. 
Delia  Robbia,  Luca,   61,   182,  216, 

220-222,  237,  250,  253. 
Della  Robbia,  Marco,  223. 
Della  Robbia,  Paolo,  223. 
Delia  Robbia   ware,  217,    221-222, 

229,  249,  274. 
Desiderio  da    Settignano,    203-204, 

210,  239. 
Deutsch,  Emanuel,  quoted,  224-225. 
Diario  della  Magliabecchiana,  45. 
Domenico  da  Venezio,  195. 
Dominican  monks,  292. 
Donatello,  22,  24,  172,  203,  216,  217, 

218,  220,  234. 
Donato,  Simone  di  Corse,  48. 
Duccio,  63. 

Easter  in  Florence,  211-212,  224. 
Eleanora  degli  Albizzi,  269. 
Eleanora  of  Toledo,  180,  266-267. 
Elena  the  lace-vender,  70-82. 
Epicurus,  quoted,  106. 
Erba  Tornabuoni  (tobacco),  262. 
Ercolano,  Saint,  24. 
Escutcheons,  Florentine,  8. 
Eugenius  IV.,  Pope,  139. 

Fabriano,  Gentile  da,  244. 
Farinata  degli  Uberti,  146. 
Feo.  Belcari,  204.  206.  206. 


350 


INDEX. 


Ferdinand  II.,  217. 

Ferrara,  birthplace  of  Savonarola, 

131-132. 
Ferrucci,     Francesco     (Cecco    del 

Tadda),  263. 
Festa  of  the  Assumption,  107, 116- 

119,  342. 
Festa  of  Saint  Anna,  59. 
Festa  of  San  Lorenzo,  55-68. 
Festa  of  San  Romulo,  101-102,  103. 
Fibonacci,  Leonardo,  145. 
Ficino,  Marsilio,  144,  145. 
Fiesole,  45,  97,  98  ;   "  the  ancient 
mother,"  100,  104,  107,  326,  344; 
cathedral  of,  101, 105 ;  straw-work 
of,  104,  344. 
Flood  of  the  Arno,  337-341. 
Florence,  "  the  leather  age  "  in,  18- 
19;   "the  age  of  wool,"  19,  20; 
"  the  age  of  silk,"  20-22. 
Florentine    types  :    the    vegetable- 
seller,   3,  39,  234  ;   the  carbonajo 
(seller  of    wood  and  coal),  3-4, 
234-235 ;  the  dealer  in  old  books, 
4-6;  the  antiquarian,  6,  251-261, 
282-283, 286-287 ;  the  signora,  38 ; 
the  cabman,  39-40 ;  seller  of  mac- 
aroni,    55-56  ;     flower-seller,    69, 
211  ;    lace-vender,   70-75,   81-82  ; 
Cecco,    83-87,    90;    newly-made 
citizen,  92-93 ;  contadine,  124-125 ; 
venders  at  the  Nut  Fair,  128-129  ; 
jeweller  and  his  apprentice,  192- 
193;  fruiterers,  202;  the   archae- 
ologist, 307-314 ;  the  botanist,  315- 
324 ;  beggars,  333. 
Flower-market,  278-280. 
Folco  Portinari,  17. 
Foresteria   at  Vallombrosa,  now  an 

hotel,  110;  its  inmates,  112-116. 
Fra  Angelico,  14,  136,  137,  138,  229, 

243. 
Fra  Angelico  di  Brescia,  148. 
Fra     Bartolommeo    (Baccio    della 
Porta),   137,    168,   170,   186,   196, 
227-234,  2.38,  245,  247,  250. 
Fra  Benedetto  (Bettuchio),  154-155, 

186. 
Fra  Eustachio,  139. 


Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  27,  238,  239,  244 
Fra  Paolino,  233. 
Francavilla,  Pietro,  281. 
Francesco  da  Siena,  272. 
Francis  of  Assisi,  Saint,  119. 
Franciscan  monks,  292. 
Frescobaldi,  Maddalena,  290. 

Gaddi,  Agnolo,  215,  216. 
Gaddi,  Taddeo,  45. 
GafEuri,  Giorgio,  270. 
Galileo,  298-299,  300,  301. 
Galileo's  Tower,  302,  305,  307. 
Gates :  Porta  alia  Croce,  337. 
Porta  al  Prato,  128. 
Porta  Romana,  128,  299. 
Porta  San  Frediano,  128. 
Porta  San  Gallo,  127,  128,  129. 
Genazzono,  Fra  Marianne,  147, 155. 
Ghiberti,  Lorenzo,  7, 22,  66,  182, 217, 

220,  250,  310,  313. 
Ghirlandajo,  Domenico,  26, 137, 184- 

185,  196,  237. 
Ghirlandajo,  Ridolfo,  246. 
Gibbons,  Grinling,  224. 
Giotto,  18,  22,  23,  24, 44-45,  176, 217. 

228. 
Giovanni  da  Udine,  189. 
Giovanni  delle  Corniuole,  229. 
Giovanni  Gualberto,  Saint,  108-109, 

110,  121,  122,  268. 
Giuliano  di  San  Gallo,  256. 
Governess,  the  German,  112-114. 
Grillade  k  PAnis,  128. 
Guide  of  Arezzo,  24. 
Guild  of  Wool-merchants,  2,  76,  90. 

173,  176. 
Guittone  d' Arezzo,  Fra,  145. 

Hawkswood,  Sir  John,  180,  245. 
Hospital  of  San  Egidio,  221. 
Hospital  of  San  Matteo,  93. 
Hospital    of    Santa    Maria    Nuova, 

17-18. 
-Hospital  of  the  Innocents,  61. 
Hospital  of  the  Misericordia,  292. 
Hotel  Croce  di  Savoie,  116. 
Humbert,  King,  176. 


INDEX. 


351 


Incendiarism,  mediaeval,  79. 
Infoncati,  the,  16. 
Innocent  VIII.,  Pope,  155,  256. 
Inquisition,  the,  293. 
Intarsia,  63. 

John  of  Bologna,  95,  196,  216,  217, 

268,  274,  281,  282. 
Julius  II.,  Pope,  188,  190. 
Julius  III.,  Pope,  271. 
Justice,  statue  of,  262,  263-264,  269, 

274-275. 

Lamps,  ornamental  and  symbolical, 
286-287. 

Lamps,  the  Five,  shrine  of  (Taberua- 
colo  delle  Cinque  Lampade),  28- 
31,  163,  344. 

Landino,  Cristoforo,  145. 

Lando,  Michele  di,  293. 

Latidi  Spirituali  of  Lorenzo  de'  Me- 
dici, 205. 

Leo  X.,  Pope  (Medici),  139-140. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,  14,  23,  78,  90, 
188,  197,  201,  244,  256. 

Leonardo  di  Ser  Giovanni,  219. 

Leopardi,  291. 

Leopold  L,  257,  329. 

Library,  the  Laurentian,  267. 

Lion,  the  emblem  of  Florence,  171. 

Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  126. 

Lorenzo,  Don,  15. 

Lotteringhi,  Gianni,  206. 

Louis  of  Ferrara,  148. 

Louisa  of  Orleans,  95. 

Lucca,  mountains  of,  97. 

Lucian  of  Samosata,  21. 

Luini,  Bernardino,  244. 

Lung*  Arno,  193,  332,  333,  335. 

Lung'  Amo  della  Zecca,  199. 

Lung*  Arno  Guicciardini,  98. 

Lung'  Arno  Nuovo,  11,  98. 

Luther,  tradition  of  his  preaching  in 
Florence,  77. 

Macaroni,  55-56. 
Macchiavelli,  144. 
Madonna  della  Stella,  the,  188. 
Magliabecchi,  131. 


Malatesta,  Sigismund,  220. 
Malespini,  earliest  Florentine  histo* 

rian,  100. 
Malipiero,  Pasquale,  155. 
Mangani,  Filippo,  peasant  philoso- 
pher, 103. 
Margaret  of  Austria,  200. 
Margherita,  Cistercian  nun,  283-284, 
Margherita,  Landgravine,  284. 
Margherita,  Marchesa,  284. 
Margherita  of  Geneva,  284. 
Margherita,  Queen  of  Italy,  40,  282- 

283. 
Maria  Maddalena  of  Austria,  wife 

of  Cosimo  IL,  53. 
Maria    Theresa,   Empress    of    Ger- 
many, 329. 
Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France, 

329. 
Mariotti,  Andrea,  63. 
Mars,  statue  of,  312,  313,  314. 
Marsh,  Hon.  George  P.,  American 

minister  at  Florence,  108. 
Martelli,  Camilla,  269. 
Maruffi,  Fra  Salvestro,  159,  162. 
Masaccio,  90. 
Maso  di  Bartolontini,  221. 
Mathilda,  Countess,  175. 
Matteo  di  Giovanni  da  Siena,  63. 
Medici  de'  :  Alessandro,  first  Grand- 
duke    of    Florence,    assassi- 
nated by  his  cousin  (1537), 
200,  265,  266. 
Anna  Maria  Louisa,  electress- 

palatine,  57,  59,  65. 
Antonio,  Don,  54. 
Bernardetto,  195. 
Catherine,  Queen  of  France,  6, 

269. 
Cosimo,  "pater  patriae"  (1389- 
1464),  60,  65,   132,  1.35,  139, 
169,  203,  274,  280. 
Cosimo  I.  (1537-1564).   15,  60, 
63,  64-65,  126,  261,  263,  264- 
269,  270,  271,  272,  290,  343. 
Cosimo  IL  (1609-1621),  53,  64, 

95,  270. 
Ferdinand    I.    (1587-1609),   16, 
60-61,  63,  95,  281. 


852 


INDEX. 


Medici  de*:    Ferdinand    II.  (1621- 
1670),  44. 
Francesco  (1564-1687),  60,  63, 

64-65,  267. 
Giovanni     (1475-1521),     Pope 

Leo  X.,  203,  265. 
Giovanni    delle    Bande    Nere, 

264-266. 
Giovanni    Gastone,  last  Grand- 
duke  (died  1737),  57,  200. 
Giuliano  (1453-1478),  133,  265. 
Giuliano  (1479-1516),  265. 
Giulio  (1478-1534),  Pope  Clem- 
ent VII.,  67, 168,  201, 270, 273. 
Ippolito,  Cardinal,  197. 
Lorenzo  (1492-1519),  265. 
Lorenzo     "  the     Magnificent  '* 
(1449-1492),  77-78,  103,  133, 
141-14.3,   146,    155,   183,   185, 
190,  200,  220,  257-258,  264, 
267,  280. 
Piero  (1471-1503),  27,  155, 187. 
Salvestro     (gonfaloniere,    1370), 
143. 
Mercato  Nuovo,  the,  268,  283,  343. 
Mercato  Vecchio,  61. 
Michelangelo,  14,  23,  66,  90,  167- 
168,  169,  181,  183,  184-191,  200, 
216,  221,  227,  233,  238,  256,  264. 
Michelozzo,  221,  314. 
Mina  da  Fiesole,  3. 
Minucci,  Manno  (Manno  di'  Cori), 

291. 
Misericordia,  religious  order,  17, 175, 

285,  292,  334. 
Monks  of  Vallombrosa,  119-120. 
Monna  Lisa,  244. 
Monte  de  Pieta,  207. 
Monte  Morello,  97. 
Monte  Oliveto,  monastery  of,  97. 
Monte  Pellegrino,  128. 
Monte  Senario,  105. 
Montelupo,  Raffaelo  da,  251. 
Montepulciano,  16. 
Mosaic  Madonna,  28. 


Nelli,  Plautilla,  139, 149,  233. 
Neri,  Filippo,  130. 


Neri  Acciagnoli,  Piero  di,  66. 
Nerli,  Tanai  de',  165. 
Newspapers,  Florentine,  342. 
Niccolo  de'  Cerclii,  49. 
Niccolo  Plsano,  224. 
Nigetti,  Matteo,  63,  64. 
Nut  Fair,  the,  128,  129,  149. 

Odin,  ash-tree  of,  in  Fiesole,  101. 
Opera  del  Duomo,  255. 
Orcagna,  Andrea.  215,  224,  249,  253. 
Orsini,    Clarice,    wife    of    Lorenzo 

the  Magnificent,  200. 
Orsini,  his  wax  figures,  142. 

Palazzo  Medici,  94. 

Palazzo  Pitti,  234,  258,  267. 

Palazzo  Riccardi,  55,  200. 

Palazzo  Rucellai,  271. 

Palazzo  Strozzi,  255,  262. 

Palazzo  Torrigiani,  199. 

Palazzo  Uffizi,  16,  63,  126,  234,  267- 
274. 

Palazzo  Vecchio,  173,  238,  246,  257, 
267,  313,  338,  343. 

Palissy  the  potter,  222. 

Palms,  distribution  of,  17,  198. 

Pandolfini,  Agnolo,  typical  Floren- 
tine of  "  the  age  of  wool,"  20. 

Paradisino,  II,  cloister,  110, 114, 116. 

Paterno,  Vallombrosan  monastery, 
108. 

Paul  IIL,  Pope  (Farnese),  145. 

Pazzi,  Piero  di,  66. 

Pedro,  Don,  Viceroy  of  Naples,  266. 

Perugino,  14,  26,  244. 

Peter  Martyr  in  Florence,  147,  318. 

Piagnora,  La,  bell  of  the  church  of 
San  Marco,  165. 

Piazza  Cavour,  128. 

Piazza  del  Limbo,  76. 

Piazza  dell'  Independenza,  97. 

Piazza  Michelangelo,  85,  126,  310. 

Piazza  San  Giovanni,  313. 

Piazza  San  Lorenzo,  55,  57,  94. 

Piazza  San  Marco,  94,  207. 

Piazza  San  Roraulo,  103,  104.  105. 

Piazza  Santa  Croce,  46,  55,  257. 


INDEX. 


363 


Piazza  Santa  Maria  del  Carmine,  87. 
Piazza  Santa  Trinita,  262. 
Piazza  Santo  Spirito,  2,  76. 
Piazza  Signoria,  126,  162,  164,  208, 

256,  270,  313,  342. 
Pico  della  Mirandola,  160,  165-166, 

201,  204. 
Pico  della  Mirandola  (the  younger), 

148-149. 
Pietro  de  Bergamo,  148. 
Pignone,  a  quarter  of  the  city,  97. 
Pintumchio,  132. 
Pitti,  Buonaccorso,  234. 
Pius  11.  (Piccolomini),  132,  133,256. 
Platina,  Roman  scholar,  144. 
Poggio  Imperiale,  105. 
Politian,  144,  145,  148,  151,  201. 
PoUajuolo,  Antonio,  142. 
Pontassieve,  107,  108. 
Porcellino,  II.     (See  Boar.) 
Porphyry-cutting  in  Florence,  272- 

274. 


Raphael,  26,  90,  232, 

Redi,  Francesco,  16. 

Reform  preached  by  children,  206- 

208. 
Riario,  Cardinal,  197. 
Ricasoli,    noble   Florentine  family, 

15-17. 
Riccardiana  Library,  244. 
Ricci,  Catherine,  130. 
Rimini,  220. 

Rinuccini,  Francesco,  295-296. 
Robert  of  Naples,  214. 
Robetta,  Florentine  goldsmith,  25- 

26. 
Roger  II.  of  Sicily,  20. 
Rosselli,  Cosimo,  24,  228,  229,  231. 
Rossi,  Vincenzo,  216. 
Rosso  del  Rosso,  293-294. 
Revere,  Vittoria  della,  217. 
Rucellai,  Cosimo,  271. 
Rustici,  Florentine  sculptor,  25. 


Sacchetti,  mediaeval  chronicler,  20- 
21.  29. 


Sacromoro,  Fra  Malatesta,  161,  230. 

San  Frediano,  legend  of,  122. 

San  Marco,  convent  of,  127, 134-140, 
342. 

San  Miniato,  hill  of,  121,  122,  124- 
125,  188,  235,  263. 

San  Niccolo,  convent  of,  42,  63. 

Sansovino,  195. 

Santi  Giovanni,  27. 

Savonarola,  12,  66,  129,  130  ,  born 
at  Ferrara,  131-132  j  residence  at 
Bologna,  133 ;  sent  to  Florence, 
183-134;  in  the  convent  of  San 
Marco,  139 ;  liis  bust  in  the  con- 
vent, 140 ,  life  in  Florence,  144 ; 
failure  as  a  preacher,  146-147 ; 
sent  to  San  Germignano,  147;  in 
Lombardy,  Padua,  Bologna,  and 
Reggio,  147-149 ;  in  Brescia,  Pa- 
via,  and  Genoa,  149 ;  recalled  to 
Florence,  149 ;  life  in  San  Marco, 
150 ;  relations  with  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici,  151-152;  preaches  in  the 
Duomo  for  eight  years,  152-155; 
at  Bologna,  155;  again  in  Flor- 
ence, 156;  his  great  fame,  156- 
158 ;  a  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual 
ruler,  158 ;  refuses  dignities  offered 
by  the  Pope,  159;  wane  of  his 
power,  160  ;  his  downfall,  161  ; 
his  death,  162 ;  his  memory  ven- 
erated, 164-166 ;  significance  of  his 
power,  167 ;  relations  with  Michel- 
angelo, 185-186;  interest  in  chil- 
dren, 197-198,  206-207;  his  de- 
struction of  works  of  art,  209 ; 
influence  over  artists,  229 ;  legends 
concerning  him,  261,  273. 

Scalzo,  the,  a  religious  order^  94. 

Scarperia,  61-62,  80. 

Seraplice,  Botanical  Gardens  of,  94. 

Seravezza,  marble  column  from,  94. 

Settimanni,  chronicler,  64. 

Sforza,  Caterina,  265. 

Sforza,  the  Duchess,  282. 

Sforza,  Galeazzo,  77-78,  155,  280- 
281. 

Signorelli,  Luca,  23. 

Silk- weaving,  Florentine,  20-22. 


23 


354 


INDEX. 


Simon  de  Villa,  Florentine  physi- 
cian, 29. 

Simonetta  Cecca,  144. 

Squarcialupo,  Antonio,  organ-maker, 
180. 

Streets,  Florentine,  6. 

Strozzi,  Filippo,  22,  209,  220,  264, 
290. 

Strozzi,  Giovanni  Baptista,  52, 265. 

Strozzi,  Lorenzo,  206. 

Sun-dial  (gnomon),  183. 


Tacca,  Pibtro,  268,  281-282. 

Tadda,  Andrea  della,  274. 

Tadda,  Cecco  della  (Francesco  Fer- 

rucci),  263,  272. 
Tadda,    Francesco  della,   168,  170, 

269,  272,  273,  274,  343. 
Tadda,  Pompeio  della,  343. 
Tadda,  Romulo  della,  273,  343. 
Tafl,  Andrea,  24,  28-31,  41,  172,  344. 
Tapaccini,  Filippo,  229. 
Thorwaldsen,  203. 
Tornabuoni,  Lucrezia,  206. 
Tornabuoni,  Niccolo,  262. 
Torre  del  Gallo,  299. 
Torrigiani  Gallery,  200-201,  343. 
Traveller,  the  predatory,  62-63. 
Traversa,  Ambrose,  144. 
Tribolo,  Niccolo,  126,  189. 
Tribunal  of  the  Eight,  294. 
Trinaja,  lace-vender,  70. 


Ubaldino,  Fra  Roberto,  169. 
Uccelli,  Paolo,  26. 

Uffizi  Gallery,  the,  9,  68,  234,  269^ 
274. 


Valbriani,  Cardinal  Pibtro,  lays 
the  comer-stone  of  the  Duomo, 
172. 


Vallombrosa,  107-121. 

Varchi,  267. 

Vasari,  181-182,  189,  246,  264. 

Vecchietti,  196. 

Venice,  rival  of  Florence,  177-179. 

Verrocchio,  Andrea  del,  14, 174, 203, 

244,  246,  246. 
Vespasiano  da  Bisticci,  209. 
Vespucci,  Amerigo,  237. 
Vespucci,  Simone,  195. 
Via  Calzajuoli,  7,  249,  283. 
Via  Cavour,  127. 
Via  Colonoa,  12. 
Via  de'  Fossi,  236. 
Via  del  Cocomero,  1,  8,  41. 
Via  Lamamora,  127. 
Via  Porta  Rossa,  277,  283. 
Via  Proconsola,  175. 
Via  Ricasoli,  1. 

Via  Tornabuoni,  261-262,  274,  277. 
Via  Vigna  Nuova,  271. 
Vieussieux  Library,  276. 
Villa  Careggi,  scene    of   Lorenzo's 

death,  161-152. 
Villani,  quoted,  236-237,  241. 
Vincentino,  Valerio,  269. 
Vineyards,  guarded  in  September, 

83-84. 
Violante  of  Bavaria,  200. 
Volpoja,  Lorenzo  da,  142. 


Watermelon,  Feast  of  the,  344. 
Watermelon,  Street  of  the,  1,  4,  7, 

10-12,  14-16,  23,  28,  29,  33,  64,  86. 

91,  95,  171,  191,  210,  212,  226,  234, 

241-242,  248,  256,  269,  282-283, 

311,  327. 
Wool,  Florentine  industry,  19-20. 


Zenobius,  Saint,  12,  179, 182,  246, 
338. 
I  Zucchero,  Federigo,  182. 


the  Amo 


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